


in full bloom

by fuscience



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, Tattoo Parlour/Flower Shop AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-20 06:14:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3639855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuscience/pseuds/fuscience
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s the girl again, standing outside the shop next door now, placing some sunflowers into a bucket and arranging them silently as a wind chime blows from its perch on the overhang. A portion of a tattoo, thick black lines in some kind of pattern, peeks out on the bicep of her right arm and her hair is braided back, held in place by a folded cloth. She looks up and meets Clarke’s gaze across the way and common courtesy says she should avert her eyes, but the girl keeps staring and Clarke can’t bring herself to look away first. </p><p>//</p><p>Clarke’s the new apprentice at the Blake’s tattoo parlour and she’s learning a lot about growing from the owner of the flower shop next door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. legs don't fail me now

**Author's Note:**

> i did not tag minor pairings and such so if anyone feels i should let me know.  
> this is simply the prologue so further chapters will be longer.  
> 25k is already written but it's really out of order so updates may be unplanned and sporadic

_“I’ve got a romantic’s heart_

_strapped inside of a cynic’s chest_

_and no where near the courage_

_to do anything about it._

_Everyday, I go to war with a body_

_that gives like the trussell_

_on an old sewing machine,_

_and write soliloquies_

_to the seam of my ribs,_

_all because I am too afraid_

_to lift my shirt_

_and actually_

_touch it.”_

 

 

—

| 

The Contradiction, by Ashe Vernon  
  
---|---  
  
  


It looks like the right place.

 

Clarke’s never been one to judge on appearances. Okay, that’s a lie, but whatever - look at the place.

 

There's a nice flower shop next door, with beautiful blooms lined up in buckets right outside the door, crowding the sidewalk and a girl in loose pants and a crop top stands outside watering them, but all of that quiet, nature-like cleanliness merely serves to accentuate the grungy exterior of the tattoo shop that had called her two days ago and offered her a job. The outside is brick, old and dirty, not like the nice exposed pictures she sometimes come across on Pinterest, more dilapidated than chic, but they’d hired her after seeing her portfolio and Clarke needed a job, needed a paycheck before the first of the month because rent was due and financial aid was no longer an option (neither was her mother). It’s ugly and old and outdated, like two steps away from antique or hipster if the owners had bothered to do upkeep on the building, but the outside decor had obviously not been a priority over the years. Abby Griffin would hate it to her very core and it's that thought that gives Clarke the courage to step through its doorway.

 

A bell above the door rings as she enters and Clarke inhales sharply at the noise, but continues on because going back is not an option in the slightest. Despite the outside of the building, the inside is almost clinical in its cleanliness. Jewelry sits lined neatly in cases and the couches at the entrance, while as old as anything else, look freshly vacuumed and have tables with coasters and magazines and fresh flowers next to them. Clarke's eyes  are immediately drawn to the artwork, framed and resting on every available space, hung on every open piece of wall as to attract and encourage any potential customers. There's raunchy American style drawings of butts and pinup girls riding penises, obnoxious bald eagles and snakes - a few graffiti-style candy skulls all colored beautifully, but it's the realism art that makes her stop. Lions and flowers, the craggy faces of old men and women with their wrinkles shaded in to perfection. Clarke's fingers find the crinkled edges of a smile and then the intricate shadings of what appears to be a car engine and she's impressed. A weight is suddenly lifted off her chest - validation hits her like bus and she feels assured by the talent of whatever artist created all these pictures, assured that coming to work here was a good idea, despite every part of her that was raised by her mother telling her it’s a bad idea.  The art is good. Clarke’s is better, but her expertise is limited to paper and she can only imagine what it must be like to permanently stitch this into the skin of someone’s being.

 

"Hello." Clarke’s startled from touching the glass surrounding the drawings and turns to see a man, probably several years older than her with floppy hair that peeks out from under the trim of a tuque and curls around the edges of his face. He’d be attractive, gorgeous really, were it not for the way his eyebrows curl pretentiously or the ugly scowl that mars his face. “What do you want?”

 

He sneers a little bit, taking in her appearance (jeans, boots and a pristine white blouse), probably far too clean cut when compared to his grimy, ink-stained t-shirt and similarly covered, black jeans. If she were to answer honestly, Clarke either wants to run or punch him now - both extreme reactions that would probably not be suitable if she wants this job.  “I’m Clarke - “ The guy’s face shifts into something a little more enthusiastic now and he interrupts her, small smile on his lips.

 

“Ah - got ya. Cool, you’re early. I wasn't quite expecting you, yet." He holds out a hand for her to shake, "I’m Bellamy.” Clarke nods her head - early is on time, on time is late was a mantra drilled into her head as a child, curled into one of the bunks in the on-call room at her mother’s hospital. Bellamy waves a hand and walks around the jewelry case to shake hers quickly. “Welcome to DROPSHIP Tattoos. I’ll give you a tour, princess.”

 

She frowns a bit at the nickname, but let’s it slide - something about it settles strangely in her and she still has  a strong urge to go tell this dude to go fuck himself. Clarke wants to work, she wants direction and cooperation - if she wanted obnoxiously shitty coworkers she would have gotten a job at the art museum six blocks west.

 

Bellamy leads her around the glass jewelry case to the open area behind it pointing out all the different spaces - there’s three open work areas, chairs and tables set up for the next customer, and to the left are three doors - two that lead to private rooms for customers willing to sit for several hours of inking, and one that leads to a single restroom. A cash register sits up front, to her right, on top of another case for piercing jewelry and a computer that looks far past its prime rests on a desk in a small nook in the back right corner. Double doors lead to a back room that Bellamy terms the employee lounge. Some more tables line the back wall, all outfitted with high-grade lamps and paint splattered easel - it’s here Bellamy stops, patting a heavy hand against the desk farthest away from the front door.

 

“This will be your home for the next couple of months - until you’re ready to start inking.” He still looks entirely too smug to make a good first impression on Clarke, but the workstation is clean and someone went through the trouble of filling it with basic art supplies and tucking her portfolio into the under drawer so, that's welcoming.

 

“Cool. Thanks.” Her eyes flick back to the equipment behind her though and Bellamy catches the shadow of longing there. 

 

Bellamy clears his throat. “So, um just for a bit, I’m going to go count out the register. Just for a couple of minutes and then we’ll go over some of your sketches.” He pokes his tongue to the inside of his check in thought, “So, y’know, I won’t be able to see what’s going on back here - just,”  His finger jabs at her in the air, “don’t screw anything up.”

 

Clarke’s offended for a moment, she’s an apprentice not a complete imbecile, but she also understands what Bellamy’s offering and it’s kind of nice so she nods her head, “That sounds good. Thanks.”

 

“Don’t mention it.” He walks towards the front, turning around only once. “Really, I mean it,  don’t mention it.”

 

Once Bellamy’s out of sight Clarke goes to sit down at the nearest workstation - a name, Octavia, is signed on most of the art pinned up around it which mostly consists of patterns in different styles and colors with a few nature-themed drawings. They’re bold - both in color and structure, with wide, sweeping dark lines that make the pieces stand out even when they’re simple monochromatic sketches. She sits in the chair and takes a moment to catalogue where all the equipment is before reaching for the tools. Clarke goes for the gun first,  holding the grip steady in her hand, feeling how the rubber rubs against her palm. The tube is empty, waiting for a sterile needle to be slipped inside so an artist can work their way through a human canvas and it all rests heavy in her hand, but she feels very light.

 

Clarke gets her first tattoo when she is angry and twenty-three, almost nine months ago now,  consumed by a grief she does not understand. Her father died in the summer between her freshman and sophomore  year at medical school and, two days after the call, she storms into a tattoo shop, that, looking back, was probably far below health code, asking for a griffin head on the side of her ribs. It stands in black and white, with the colors of a sunset bursting behind it and it hurt so bad as the needle bit into her skin that she had nearly passed out - twice, but the artist who had inked her held her still and she’d willed herself to not move. The lines in her skin scab and flake for weeks after the appointment, but Clarke cleans it religiously, treating it like a battle wound or an open sore. She thinks it’s one of those - maybe both. The following Monday she drops out of medical school. Her mother is  befuddled and furious and threatens to cut her off is she doesn't return because her undergraduate degree in art gives her no assurances ‘that you won't end up starving to death in a back alley, Clarke'. She doesn't. She can’t.

 

(Clarke gets it now, how overwhelmed her mother was too, but it doesn't take the sting away and she's not sure they'll ever repair the bridges they burned that night on the phone.

 

"If you're doing this to punish me Clarke don't. It only hurts you." Her mother had said.

 

"That's not true. This doesn't hurt at all." And it hadn’t. The absence of her father’s nightly calls or the way her mother sounds right now or the press of the needle into her skin over and over etching the sadness beneath her - ripping a hole in her that she doesn’t know how to fix.Walking away though, at this moment, is painless..)

 

She begins rifling through the drawers, trying to figure out what kind of system the artist is using for organization, but finds that most things are kind of thrown together in a haphazard style that probably only makes sense to the person who sits here. The bottom drawer on the right only opens after a vicious tug and Clarke is greeted with over a dozen needles, tucked into sterile packaging, and she very quickly and quietly shuts it back, dropping the gun on the desk in the same motion. Clarke suddenly feels sick and she’s really glad Bellamy is still out of sight and doesn’t see the speed at which she withdraws from the drawer. A tattoo artist afraid of needles is not one that he would hire. Her desk is empty though and looks safe so, she walks over to it, sitting down and doing an inventory of what was already present and what she would have to pack for to bring tomorrow. Going over things in her head calms Clarke down, it relaxes her and fools her body into thinking she’s prepared for what lays ahead - no matter the actuality.

 

The entire place is silent except for the quiet shuffle of Bellamy up front. It’s a Wednesday and the middle of a workday so, it’s not unusual that there’s not a flood of customers, but -

 

“Is the place always this… empty?” she asks. The yelp reviews had been numerous and, mostly, glowing - except for the occasional customers displeased with the cost or their artist’s attitude (and if they had gotten Bellamy, Clarke honestly couldn’t blame them - he comes off a little rough).

 

Her tentative boss is staring at the clock, ignoring her and watching the big hand edge closer and closer to one, before sighing. “We’ll get a bunch in soon - a lot of the employees are at ArcU and their classes don’t let out until the afternoon. Walk-ins also tend to pick up in the evenings.” He grumbles, “It’ll be plenty loud enough in a bit. Enjoy the silence while it lasts..”

 

Clarke hums, “I graduated from there.” She leaves out that she’d been attending the medical school not two months back.

 

“ArcU?” She nods. “Art program?” Bellamy asks and she nods again, fingering a piece of paper and one of the new charcoal pieces. “Cool.”

 

She can’t help but smile, Clarke’s not used to the slight admiration or even acceptance when she admits to graduating with an art degree. It’s normally met with a sentence that ends in a question mark like - oh, how nice? and what a fun degree? and the absolute best ‘i’m sure you’ll find a job?’. Bellamy’s not so bad, Clarke decides.

 

She's already got her portfolio out on the desk, so all Bellamy has to do is spread them out. He picks out a few and sorts them separately, then points to the first stack. “These are good. Perfectly translatable to skin - distinct shading and lines." And Clarke already knows where he's going with this, based on the second piles style which is much looser and takes on an almost smudged quality. They're worthless and her jaw clenches and her eyes turn steely in preparation. "Now, these. These could be great. They're a lot more difficult, but people are really clamp ring to have different more distinct art than the basic coke and line scheme." Oh.  That was unexpected. "Now, we have sheets of fake skin for practice in the back and there's a healthy supply of fruit and pig ears in the fridge but you can always run to the grocer if we run out - you know the one on Carter?"

 

Clarke nods stupidly, still a little overwhelmed by how different this environment is - how different Bellamy is from the high-strung science students or stressed-out art majors or judgemental adults (her mom, her mom, her mom). He’s got a small smile on his face, looking over Clarke’s drawings like just seeing them makes him happy and Clarke could almost cry at the feeling of warmth that spreads low in her belly and the blush that rises in her cheeks.

 

“Yeah. So, I’d really like it if you worked on this stuff because that could be an awesome draw for you to get personal clients as well as bring in customers to the shop. You’ll have a probationary period where we’ll start you off on piercings until I feel you have a good handle on how to use the gun. ” He sniffs and looks at the clock again, “Anyway, you don’t have to stay the rest of the day if you don’t want, but you’re welcome to work with anything we got here anytime.”

 

Clarke bites her lips, hands bouncing a little against the wood. “I think I’ll stay.” Bellamy smiles and Clarke wonders if he knows she doesn’t mean just for the day. They go over a few more details before Bellamy has to leave as a customer walks in through the door, that bell tingling over head.

 

Bellamy reminds her once again that she's welcome to any of the materials in the shop and that his sister bought the charcoal for her, but she can use anything from his desk or hers. Clarke decides for today, to stick with what she's comfortable. Her fingers find a page of paper placed reverently in the Ali top door with the new charcoal set and she begins to draw. In the back of her mind, she vaguely hears the bell ring again, signaling someone’s entrance or exit, but Clarke is very involved in the way she’s shading the bricks and the buckets, sketching out dark lines of stalks and petals and the flower shop next door is coming to life from her memory before she even knows what’s happening. Clarke tries to remember the shape of everything, the texture, and ignores the way her fingers itch to fill in some of the blank space with a girl leaning over to care for the flowers, but she can’t imagine the eyes and so, the absence stays.

 

“Yo.” Clarke startles at the voice over her shoulder, jumping in her seat. “Wow, nice - is that Lexa’s place?”

 

“Wha - ?” There’s a girl behind her, eyeliner smudged and dark, with a bright smile. Her hair is long and straight and, it’s not Clarke’s first thought about her, but the second one is definitely she’s hot. The third is that she looks oddly like Bellamy (if he had smiled anytime in the past hour - oh, shit two hours - she’d been drawing longer than she thought.)

 

The bell rings again and it’s like the place comes alive - three more people walk in, book bags slung over shoulders before being dropped at the door and Bellamy shouts at them to put them in the back ‘goddammit, not right where the fucking customers can see.’.

 

One of the guys, the one wearing safety goggles (wow, what an eclectic bunch) yells back ‘don’t be fucking customers, Bellamy’

 

 _'that doesn't even make sense!_ ' The group chatters amongst themselves, two boys and a girl, and Clarke can still feel Octavia over her shoulder, keeping her sitting as they make their way towards her.

 

“Hey! Come meet the new artist, assholes.” Clarke panics a bit, but Octavia’s still smiling at her. “You’re Clarke, right? You’re art was kickass - I saw it and I told Bellamy we have to get her here.”

 

“Yeah. I’m Clarke.” She stands to greet them, spine stiffening.  

 

“Clarke this is Maya,” Octavia points to the girl, “Monty.” the guy in the neat blue polo, “and Jasper.” who’s wearing a strange amount of layers and has safety goggles hanging from his neck. “Guys, this is Clarke.”

 

“Monty runs our social media accounts - Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr. You name it we’ve got it, thanks to him. Jasper’s his remora.” Hey! “and Maya’s our lovely eye-candy.”

 

The girl gives a wry grin at Octavia, who throws an arm around the shorter girl, hugging her tightly before Maya extricates herself from Octavia’s grip, extending a hand toward Clarke, “I like to think I help keep everyone from getting into  trouble - or at least from going to jail.”

 

Octavia shrugs, "She succeeds like half the time."

 

"Better be more than that O." Bellamy yells from the back and Octavia rolls her eyes.

 

“I’m her boyfriend” Jasper says proudly, chest puffed out, like being associated with Maya is his greatest achievement in life. It’s kind of cute and Maya seems to like it, smiling at him warmly.

 

“Loser.” Octavia coughs out before heading towards the back area, away from Clarke and the rest.

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Did you like the charcoal? I didn’t know what kind was best - I don’t do much with that media.” Octavia shouts, voice muffled by the double doors that she’d propped open.

 

“Ah! So you stocked the desk? Thanks.” Clarke wants to tell her that she hasn’t felt this welcome in a long time, that opening that desk and seeing supplies gently organized and ready for use was one of the nicest things someone has done for her in so long, but that feels like too much, too soon, and maybe she can find other ways, besides her words, to repay Octavia’s kind thoughts.

 

“Yeah I noticed a lot of your stuff was in charcoal so I figured that’d be a good ‘welcome to the party’ present.” Octavia walks out, doors swinging sharply behind her, and Clarke’s jaw drops a little bit. She’s lost her pants and struts into the room in her underwear without a care in the world, ignoring the subtle (Maya, Monty) and not-so-subtle (Jasper, Clarke) stares of the others in the room.

 

“O! No pants, no ink.” Bellamy yells, glaring at everyone out of the corner of his eye. Octavia just flounces across the room and heads up the stairs to the right of the entrance - hopefully, to find some pants. “Jesus, what if a customer had walked in?” He mutters, coming back to stand next to Clarke. He gives out a little sigh, jaw working back and forth. “Octavia’s my sister, by the way.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yeah, that’s what I call her.”

 

“No - I mean - nevermind. I thought you two looked alike.” Clarke admits and she watches Bellamy’s chin rise proudly and he must be a good brother to have that much love shining in his eyes.

 

“She’s a good kid. She’s in the linguistic program at ArcU as an undergrad, so you won’t see her any mornings except the occasional weekend.” He turns to her and points out Monty and Jasper, “Fair warning, those guys like to grow bud and are high most of the time. Jasper basically defines his existence with bad life decision. Monty and Maya being the exception.”

 

Clarke smiles a bit and looks at Bellamy to confirm it was a joke. He’s smirking down at her and she takes that as a good sign.

 

“Do you buy from ‘em?” Clarke asks curiously.

 

Bellamy huffs. “Jasper? Hell no. Monty - sure. I’ll trust what he grows, but there’s a reason Monty’s getting his PhD in bioengineering and Jasper works as a C.P.A.”

 

Clarke laughs and Bellamy grins, eyebrows hitching up a little in cool amusement.  He claps her on the back and let’s her know that she could come in tomorrow about the same time and he’ll get out the pig feet and skin - Clarke’s stomach clenches because that means he’ll expect her to hold a gun, but the imprint of his fingers on her warm skin is still there and it gives her confidence that she hasn’t had in a long time.

 

When she leaves a few hours later the sun is still high and beating down despite the day edging towards evening, and she's smiling into the warm spring afternoon. She feels good about this. Her car is parked a couple blocks away, down Burnet street at the corner of Whitechapel, right next to a German bakery that was probably going to be the start of a horribly sugary habit.

 

There’s the girl again, standing outside the shop next door now, placing some sunflowers into a bucket and arranging them silently as a wind chime blows from its perch on the overhang. A portion of a tattoo, thick black lines in some kind of pattern, peeks out on the bicep of her right arm and her hair is braided back, held in place by a folded cloth. She looks up and meets Clarke’s gaze and common courtesy says she should avert her eyes, but the girl keeps staring and Clarke can’t bring herself to look away first. So, they stand there for a minute scrutinizing each other before a noise from inside the flower shop pulls the girl’s attention away and Clarke is left with only an empty sidewalk. Looking from the flower shop to the DropShip sign, Clarke thinks this place may be good for her. A good place to restart.

 


	2. you may call it home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke begins to get comfortable despite her awkward encounters with the girl next door.

_I am not a graveyard_

_you do not get to bury your past loves in me_

_hoping something grows_

_in the space where you let everything die_

 

 

  * h.p.



 

 

 

 

They make it clear that she won’t be immediately inking everyone that comes into the store. Octavia walks her through what the apprenticeship will entail: a thorough understanding of sterilization procedures, use of needles and inks, laws on who is and who isn’t allowed to be tattooed and how to verify, and Bellamy even jokes she’s going to be getting free lessons in business management and marketing. She’s there most days at open, leaving a good nine or ten hours later with Bellamy or Octavia - whoever happens to be working her shift with her, morning or evening, and it is nice calming work where she gets to delve into her art. Her hands don’t shake as much when she picks up the gun and that’s a step-forward (she doesn’t dream of IV’s or blood as much, she doesn’t wake feeling as empty). Clarke takes her wins where she can and this shop, her job, these people, are definitely starting to look like one.

 

It’s her first customer today. For piercing, not inking and while, it’s not quite the same there’s still a needle and that’s got Clarke’s stomach twisting into knots.

 

“Hi. My name’s Clarke and I’ll be taking care of your piercing today. What are we doing?” The girl she’ll be piercing is sitting in the first private room, relaxed and chatting with her friend who stands behind her, laughing at something.

 

It’s an industrial. _Jesus fucking christ_. Couldn’t have started with a simple lobe, had to go full on crushing cartilage not once, but twice.

 

She cleans the ear methodically, ignoring the buzzing in her ears. She reaches into the medical cabinet and takes out a needle still wrapped in it’s sterile packaging. It lays in her lap for a minute and Clarke stares at it, silently waiting to unseal it only once she knows her fingers won’t shake.

 

Breathe in. Breathe out.

 

Clarke turns to the girl needle in hand and cups her ear. “Ready? I want you to take a deep breath and listen as I count down from three.” Idly, the girl nods.

 

“Three.”

 

Her father lived for three days after the accident, but he never woke up.

 

“Two.”

 

The IVs sunk into his pallid skin, respiratory pump keeping him alive. Clarke only had stitches. She didn’t get to say goodbye.

 

“One.”

 

The needle shoots through the cartilage and blood slips out, droplets painting the very edges of Clarke’s gloved hand. Her jaw is clenched so hard it hurts and she is swallowing the urge to run, the urge to shake. The world narrows to a pinpoint.

 

“Clarke. Clarke!” She tears her eyes away from the blood to Octavia who’s standing there expectantly, “Nice job on the piercing.” Clarke looks back and the piercing is done and in, the girl laying down relaxed in chair.

 

“Oh. Thanks.” There’s a lump in her throat and she swallows it down, hoping her face isn’t showing the terror she feels to the customer. “Let me just clean this up and i’ll get you on your way.” She takes out the sterile wipe and begins washing away the blood, catching it with the dry cloth and watching it seep in, diluted and pink.

 

 

* * *

 

When she gets to her desk the following morning she notes a new collection of drawings hanging above the framed ones she’d initially admired on her first day. There’s another detailed motor drawing, a yacht, and what looks to be some kind of space ship with the parlour’s name written in wild font underneath - the legs of the ship poke out into the words, panels and satellites shaded in to the point that Clarke can almost see the screws that would keep it flying.

 

“Did you do this one?” Bellamy looks up from a sketch he’s been quietly working on, squinting at the art she’s pointing to, but it’s Monty who answers.

 

“That’s one of Raven’s.” A new name. Clarke tries to indirectly look around to make sure she hadn’t missed anyone lurking in one of the back rooms. She'd been introduced to so many people lately some of them seemed to just run together. “Sweet, right? She designed is as a logo for the shop.”

 

“You’ll meet her later. Eventually.” Bellamy says, head bowed back over his work, and Clarke nods, _ah so, she wasn’t here_ , “She refuses to work Saturdays.”

 

Clarke looks back at the drawing it, admiring it once more before going back to work.

 

So, that’s that.

 

And Clarke does meet her. Eventually.

 

Raven comes in on a Wednesday, about a week and a half after Clarke is hired, schedules finally syncing up, and if she was blown away by her art, she is even more stunned by the girl herself. Raven blows into the shop like a whirlwind, voice loud and echoing off the walls as she argue with a guy following behind her - Clarke catches words like fluid-pressure dynamics and stoichiometry and  “No, Wick. _Goddammit_ , are you fucking stupid?”

 

“What? _No_! I am - I mean we are literally the smartest people in this room.” And then it’s silent for a moment before the guy follows up with a “But you’re the smartest.”

 

Octavia leans over to tell her, in a highly amused voice, that that’s Raven, and Clarke whispers back a quick ‘ _I figured_ ’, just as the girl turns around and, wow, there must be something in the water here. Hair dark and long, pulled up into a ponytail, eyes flashing as she continues to speak ( _yell?_ ) with the tall blonde guy walking beside her - Wick, Clarke assumes.

 

“Raven and Wick are studying at ArkU - mechanical and chemical engineering respectively. Their hobbies include constantly arguing like little bitches over their precious pet projects, getting tattoos of machines, and boning - not necessarily in that order and none of which they’ll own up to.” Octavia continues, before suddenly throwing a hand up and waving at the new duo.  “Hey, come meet Clarke!”

 

Octavia is very welcoming, but sometimes Clarke wishes she would give her a minute or two to acclimate before bombarding her with new faces. There had been Monty and Jasper and Maya her first day, then Monroe and Harper on Monday (needle and ink deliveries, respectively), and now Raven and Wick and Clarke’s head was going to explode if Octavia didn’t stop trying to make Clarke best friends with everyone who walked through the front doors..

 

Raven has a half sleeve on her right arm, a puzzle of armor and wiring that looks like someone took a robot and imprinted it onto her skin. It’s fucking awesome and Clarke’s a little jealous of the finesse at which the artist tattooed the image. (her hands still tremble with the needle, and sometimes, even though it has gotten so much better in just the small amount of time she’s been working here, Clarke is afraid it will never completely go away).

 

“Raven.” A hand is thrust in her face. “Nice to meet you. I guess.”

 

“Well, that’s rude.” Wick chimes in behind her as Clarke reaches to shake the offered hand.

 

“I’m Clarke.” She waits a moment, practically vibrating, but Clarke’s been waiting to say this since the day she walked in and let her fingers trace the curves of those framed drawings, “Your art. It’s _amazing_. First thing I saw when I walked in and it really took my breath away.”

 

Raven stalls, and looks a little uncomfortable.“Um. Thanks. You know I just copy a lot of them from schematics I’ve seen. It’s not rocket science.” She brushes off the compliment.

 

Clarke looks at the detail of some of the images, now imagining them as actually working machines and “Close enough.”

 

Wick gives her a thumbs up from behind Raven’s back, who’s stuck somewhere between preening and sticking her head in an oven, so Clarke must have said something right. She grins at him, warmth curling in her belly. Clarke really likes these people. Maya walks out from the back laughing as Monty attempts to throw popcorn into her mouth. They wave at her. Yeah, she really likes it here.

 

“So, what’s your specialty Clarke?”

 

“I really like anatomical drawings.”

 

Octavia cackles, “She’s got a thing for sceneries right now though!” and Clarke’s face turns red as Raven tilts her head curiously.

 

 

* * *

 

For the past two weeks, ever since Octavia had made the passing compliment on her drawing of the flower shop next door Clarke had been using it as a base for all her other works. It’s not where her talent lies, which is why she doesn’t quite understand the drive to draw it,  but she’s put this building and it’s surroundings in colored pencil, pastels, and oils over and over, driven it into pig skin and pears and even the nasty fake skin that she really dislikes (it feels like rubber and reminds her of jello - Clarke hates jello). She can’t get it right. Either the colorings off or the lines or off or she the size is off and by the end of her first week at DROPSHIP, Clarke has covered her space with drawings of the flower shop.

 

“Someone might think you’re a little obsessed.” Monty sits behind her, observing Clarke as she takes watercolor to the latest attempt - trying to remember the exact color of the flowers that were sitting outside that shop.

 

“I’m not. I just can’t get it right.”

 

“So, a perfectionist then.” Monty’s got a way with people. He sets everyone at ease and earns both their trust and their respect and that’s a gift Clarke can admire - she just won’t necessarily fall for it.

 

“No. I mean -” Clarke sighs, “Maybe.” Well, her air of mystery certainly didn’t last long.

 

“Why don’t you just go sit outside and sketch it? Instead of doing it in here.” Clarke had considered it. She’d even picked up her easel and stepped outside, but then the girl had been there and she’d seen Clarke and Clarke had seen her and then, well, Clarke had chickened out to put it mildly.   “Ah.” Monty notes the scowl on Clarke’s face. “You met Lexa.”

 

She throws down her brush petulantly. So, her name is _Lexa_. “No. We just - I saw her and she’s um…” Intimidating. Frightening.

 

“Intense?”

 

“Yeah. I felt like I was intruding.”

 

“Well, good luck with it. I guess.” Monty gets up and begins to walk away, then stops. “She’s not that bad, you know. I mean I’ve never really talked to her, but she’s never been mean. I can’t imagine she’d care if you sketched her shop.”

 

“I know.” Clarke replies, picking up her brush again and twiddling it, absentmindedly dipping it into the red then dipping it back into her water cup. “When she’s watching me, though, I can’t concentrate.” She murmurs it, staring hard and unflinchingly at the flowers on her paper.

 

They _look_ at each other. Every morning, one way or another, Lexa is out there at the same time Clarke is either coming or going and they make eye contact and it hits Clarke, makes her nervous and queasy in a way she hasn’t felt in a long time, but she doesn’t know how to begin to explain that feeling.  Monty shrugs though, knowing when to leave well enough alone, and heads into the back where the Xbox and stolen cable are set up with a T.V. that’s probably as old as most of the employees.

 

(“Not stolen, Clarke. Merely borrowed with limited permission.” Monty doesn’t look away from the television.

 

“Oh yeah, and whose 'limited'," Clarke uses her fingers to make air quotes, "permission do you have because I’m pretty sure it’s not the neighbors?”

 

“Young padawan, you have so much to learn. If they didn’t want us using it they wouldn’t have made it so easy to access.” This is what Jasper offers up as an explanation and Clarke just laughs and washes her hands of it - she doesn’t watch the T.V. anyway.

 

“Nice logic there, Zuckerberg.”)

 

Clarke turns back to her unfinished drawing and there’s still about half the page to finish. The line work is good, she feels like she’s got everything there in pencil, the coloring on the flowers are acceptable (Clarke needs to work on applying shades with watercolor, but it is something that she can layer on another time). There’s something missing though. Dammit. She’s not a coward. She’s not. And she really, really, like really wants to get over this fixation so, with Monty watching curiously from the back, Clarke picks up her chair and easel, and paper, and water colors and moves them all methodically outside. She sets up shop a little off the sidewalk, so she’s not in the way of any mid-afternoon pedestrians and, breathes a little easier. Lexa’s not out. (She doesn’t know her. How can a girl she doesn’t even know cause so much hesitation in her - Clarke Griffin, who bungee jumped off a bridge in tenth grade, who took every single drunken dare in college - one of which resulted in her falling off a roof and breaking her arm, who regularly defies her mother - a terrifying woman in and of herself - she doesn’t know). The flowers are slightly different but Clarke can accommodate that. She’d be a useless artist if she couldn’t deal with a little variability in the scenery. For a little while, Clarke manages to work in peace -finally managing to grasp the details her memory was missing such as the grain of the wood, or the stains on the buckets and the exact color of the building.

 

But, soon enough, there she is. She’s not looking Clarke’s way though - not yet, and Clarke considers just packing up everything quietly and escaping into the comfort of the DROPSHIP, but she’s not a coward. Clarke repeats it to herself. Not. A. Coward.

 

So, she stays and draws and paint, sneaking glances at Lexa and her flowers every now and then - breathing a little easier each time she manages to avoid her gaze, slowly adding Lexa to her work.

 

Clarke should have known it wouldn’t last. Next time she looks up, Lexa is gone from her vision. And standing right behind her. She jumps and Lexa doesn’t move, continuing to stare at her work over her shoulder. Clarke flushes and swallows, throat dry.

 

“It’s very good.” Her voice is soft and nothing quite like Clarke imagined (and she’d always been complimented on her ability to fantasize).

 

Clarke should say thank you. She should, but she opens her mouth and closes it and opens it again, and obviously words are not going to be working right now so, she just nods and avoids all eye contact. Lexa’s  waiting for her to respond and when she doesn’t, she moves away, going back to her flowers and letting the compliment and Clarke’s proceeding awkwardness saturate the air between them.

 

After that, there’s no way Clarke’s getting any work done so, she sits there and pretends to paint a little longer before packing her stuff up and moving back inside the parlour. The moment she’s out of Lexa’s sight, she can breathe again and the knot inside her stomach untwists. She tries not to think much about it.

 

 

* * *

 

Lexa is not a nice person. She’s polite and she can be kind, but there’s nothing in her that screams approachable or friendly and she’s always been that way and she's always been okay with that. But she’s never been reminded more of why she’s not a ‘turn strangers into friends’ person until she walks up behind the girl from the Blake’s tattoo parlour and compliments her painting.

 

It’s of her shop and she truly does think it’s beautiful - Clarke’s colors are on point and the details are numerous and intricate. The flowers look like they could emit a scent of their own were they not simply paint and canvas. Art has never exceptionally captured her interest but she admires skill, likes the way artists interpret the lines of pictures onto the surface of her skin. (She has four tattoos - one on her bicep, another on the top of her right thigh, her largest one drips down her back and bleeds into her side, and a final piece that lies on the surface of her left foot.)

 

She doesn’t say anything though so Lexa walks away and twenty minutes later the girl is gone. It hurts a little, but Lexa buries it beneath every other old scar and open wound. She’s had a lot of practice.

 

The girl painted Lexa too though, added her into the flowers and light and it was absolutely breathtaking.

 

 

* * *

 

When Clarke gets back inside she sits down quietly on the couch in front and stares at the nearly finished piece, the image of Lexa-the-fucking-flower-girl now included to the right center, bent over, head turned away from the audience as she rearranges a particular flower. It was missing her. This makes Clarke irrationally angry because she’d resisted adding in the girl next door to her work for the past two weeks and yet, with her in it, it suddenly feels proportional and complete and to have resisted the one detail that finishes everything neatly makes Clarke feel stupid and embarrassed. She doesn’t even know why she didn’t want to draw her. The lighting still needs to be fixed on the piece, and Clarke fights the urge to ball up the piece of paper and throw it in a corner. Instead, walking over to her desk and laying it neatly on top, she promises herself she will finish it another time. Clarke sits heavily down in her chair and takes one last glance at the work, ignoring Raven who shouts a greeting at her entrance and Wick who just follows Raven to her station. She zones in on the painting, picking it apart - the way Lexa’s hair doesn’t quite reach the midpoint of her back, the wrinkles of her shirt fall wrong, and the flowers look faded when compared to her. (It is still her best impression of the shop, yet. That, Clarke will admit.)

 

There’s a loud boom out the window and Clarke shoots up from her seat, concentration broken. Everyone’s gaze wanders to the window where a building begins to collapse in the distance and Clarke walks over to the front to watch the destruction.

 

"That's a lot of construction going on." Bellamy glances up from the thigh piece he's working on, smoothing the faux ink onto the customer's skin before removing the paper so the guy can inspect it before it’s permanently wrought into his skin. Raven comes to stand behind her, looking over her shoulder at the rising cloud of smoke that’s visible even though the actual construction is blocks and blocks away.

 

"Sierra High corporation. They've been buying up stuff around here for awhile.”

 

Wick sidles up behind them both and leans over to rest his chin in the space between Raven’s neck and collarbone. “Ahhhh, the mountain men. Their buildings are so fucking ugly it should be a crime - no finesse at all.” Raven snorts and shoves his head away from her - agreeing with him without actually saying the words.

 

Clarke nods. “It ruins the sky.”

 

“Got that right.” Raven agrees.

 

 

* * *

 

Harper delivers needles. She work from a supplier straight out of the hospital and that gives Bellamy peace of mind, being able to advertise that they use sanitary hospital-grade needles. Monroe delivers her ink (She owns her own art supplies store, Maya explained, and had mixed custom inks for Bellamy about a year back that had him hooked for life. They were quite brilliant shades, Clarke admires.) on Mondays and, without fail, every week, Harper’s delivery schedule manages to coincide with Monroe’s, as if one of them is psychic or shit. It’s a Monday ( _monday, monday, monday_ Clarke’s worked here nearly three weeks and she can hardly believe it herself) and Monroe’s due for a delivery so, that means Harper will be here as well and, like clockwork, they both arrive and Monty rushes to help.

 

At first Clarke thinks he’s just being, well, Monty, but then he turns bright red when Harper hugs him hello and Clarke quickly realizes this is a whole other ball game and she quite wants to see the ninth inning. It gets even worse when Harper turns and stumbles over herself to help Monroe unload and it’s all a little comical especially since Monroe is just staring wistfully at one of Bellamy’s black and white revolver sketches, unaware of the the two people bumbling around her.

 

“You see that too?” Raven comes up behind her, two cups of coffee in hand, laying one on Clarke’s desk. “Those three are playing out like a bad fucking half-hour comedy show.”

 

“Thanks.” Clarke takes a sip of the coffee, two sugars and a cream and Raven got it perfect. She blinks and decides not to question why Raven knows how she takes her coffee.

 

“I swear to god,” Raven watches Monroe help Harper lift a particularly heavy box of ink, ushering it through the doors, and Clarke gives a small laugh.

 

“It’s not that bad.” She says, “Not everyone has someone right there. Some of us have to work to get people to notice us.”

 

Raven turns quickly, coffee sloshing around her cup, glaring at Clarke. “Wick isn’t always there.”

 

“Pretty sure I never said Wick.” A slow knowing smile creeps up Clarke’s face and Raven turns to stare stonily ahead, “And, please, he’d never leave you if you gave him a choice.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

They watch a little longer, Octavia joining them, holding a bag of popcorn, and her and Raven crack up when Harper drops a box on Monroe’s foot, looking like she wants to cry as Monroe sits down cursing, but then Monroe just pats her on the cheek and says ‘ _don’t worry ‘bout i_ t’. Clarke reaches for a handful of popcorn and, wow, she’s never had so much fun people watching.

 

“So, how you settling in?” Octavia rests her head in her arms on top of Clarke's, desk crowding into her bubble, but that’s okay - Clarke’s been people-starved for so long she’s stopped being freaked by Octavia’s lack of personal space.

 

“Good.” Clarke smiles.

 

“Just good? You must be confusing your English adjectives because I’m pretty sure you meant to say fucking great.” Octavia sits up and elbows her in the stomach and it's such a familiar gesture that Clarke can’t help but try and return it, pushing Octavia back in some imitation of friendship. (It’s been a while. It’s been a while since Clarke’s had someone joke with her, nudge her playfully back to reality.)

 

“I’m doing fan-fucking-tastic, Octavia Blake.” Raven laughs and sits on her other side, starting a game of Clarke ping-pong, pushing her back and forth between them on the bench until Clarke stops laughing long enough to shove them both off her.  “I’m not going to get any work done if y’all don’t fuck off.”

 

“Oh yes, of course, your highness. We peasantry will fuck off and leave you to your masterpieces, princess.” Raven stands and mockingly bows.

 

“Oh yeah, masterpieces of Lexa and all her flowers.” Octavia snorts and Raven suddenly notices all the drawings around her desk.

 

“No fucking way.” She picks up the watercolor from Clarke’s one attempt of sitting outside. It’s been sitting there since that day. “You actually like that bitch?”

 

“Raven!” Octavia shoves Raven a little bit. “We borrow her cable, least you can do is refrain from calling her a bitch.”

 

“We ‘borrow’ her cable.” Raven uses finger quotes, “As in, she doesn’t know about it and would probably kill us if she did. Yeah. Pretty sure that girl hasn’t been nice to someone a day in her life” She turns to Clarke, “So, why do you have a crush on the she-devil next door?”

 

“I don’t even know her!” Clarke cries out defensively. “I just like the shop - all the colors.” She tries to keep a straight face, but she’s pretty sure the back of her neck is red. Maybe her hair will hide it. Raven shrugs like she doesn’t believe her, but lets it go. “Anyway. Want to see my artist page on the website? I’ve been working on it from home.”

 

Octavia, also looking to get away from the uncomfortable subject of Lexa and her, apparently, objectionable existence, nods her head enthusiastically. Clarke pulls out her laptop as quick as she can and tries to head to the DROPSHIP webpage only to realize she’s never logged into the internet here before. WiFi passwords are like invitations into someone’s home and Clarke has never had the nerve to ask, which makes no sense since she’s an employee, but - _oh_. Raven lifts her eyebrows expectantly.

 

“We’re waiting, Clarke.” Maybe Clarke finally feels a little more at home here.

 

“Yeah, sorry. Hey, what’s your wifi?”  Clarke yells back at Monty and Jasper who are sitting on the front couches, huddled around their own tablet.

 

Jasper laughs behind his hand and Maya sighs, elbowing him in the gut before Monty answers. “kINKytattoos. Password’s gonna be ‘your mother was a hamster’- all lowercase, no spaces.”

 

Clarke gets the reference. “Wow, guys. Didn’t think you could get cheesier.”

 

Maya waves her hand, “Do not loop me in on that one, I had nothing to do with naming of that monstrosity. It reeks too much of high school boys.” but she’s staring fondly at Jasper, like he hung the moon - even if it is made of sex jokes and British movie allusions.

 

“It's a fucking classic.” Jasper says, proudly.

 

Clarke huffs, smiling as Jasper and Monty high five behind Maya’s head, before returning back to her computer. Bellamy had given her permission to set up her artist webpage on the DROPSHIP website about three days ago which means he’d be looking for her to start tattooing soon - that was  much more interesting than anything she could learn about Lexa and her flowers.

 

 

* * *

 

The ground gives Lexa peace. In the back of her mind, when she allows herself to think aimlessly, Lexa knows it’s where she belongs. When she's digging through the soil, turning it, watering the roots of her plants she doesn't feel like she's drowning, if only for a moment. The plants ask very simple things from her and the accomplishment of cultivating life, of having it grow between her fingertips, is the closest to happy she's been in a very long time. Lexa does not forget things as easily as she’d like and there are layers to her she wish she could erase. Sometimes, she considers the other paths she could have taken, other decisions, but really none make her feel any better. It’s a useless exercise. It’s also a Wednesday though, and that’s cause for some celebration - Indra delivers today.

 

Indra is one of twelve suppliers, but she brings Lexa her favorite flowers - ones that grow naturally in the region, harvested from the surrounding nature. Indra does not use greenhouses, instead relying on wild growth to cultivate patches of the different breeds before cutting and delivering them raw to Lexa. The rest of her suppliers rely on imports or artificial environments and the further away the flowers come from the more she dislikes them - those from the more northern area she especially hates, and not simply because their Director is a slimy back stabber. Wilted and faded  (according to Lexa's standards) by the time they reach her, she only requests those when a special order comes in for them.

 

The delivery truck rolls up in front promptly at nine a.m., Indra in the driver’s seat and boxes piled in the wooden back of the beat up old blue pick up. She’s got grease and dirt smeared around her fingers and a little bit, left around her eyes and ears and every mark is a reason Lexa respects Indra, both for her product and her knowledge. As short-tempered as the older lady is, there is no one better at what she does and it is a poor gardener who does not allow themselves to sully their hands when tending to the growth. The dirt beneath Lexa’s fingernails is a point of pride when she washes them off at the end of the day.

 

As soon as the truck is in park, Lexa climbs up into the bed of the truck and her eyes light up in a way that only a few can see when the boxes come into view.

 

Wild anemone, yellow lady slipper’s orchid, caroline lupine and her favorite - merrybells. She touches the labels on each of the boxes, Indra watching as she inspects the quality, delicately fingering the petals and inspecting roots. The edges of her lips move upward in a small smile.

 

“Thank you, Indra.” Indra bows her head silently in response, face carefully set.

 

“I hope they are to your liking.”

 

“Yes. Very much so.” Lexa moves to take the first box of Merrybells, and Indra observes the small smile on her boss’ face analytically. It’s a rare sight. One she hasn’t been privy too very often in the years they’ve known and worked with each other. She wonders if it will disappear completely when everything is said and done - Indra’s honestly a little surprised it still exists at all. “We’ll store them where we normally do.”

 

Indra picks up a crate of delicate orchids and begins to unload.

 

 

* * *

 

Octavia is peering out the back door, neck stretched so far, Clarke wonders if it might separate from the rest of the body. There must be something interesting going on in the back alley - but Clarke is valiantly resisting the urge to satisfy her curiosity. At least she was until Octavia runs back in and physically hauls her out into the back alley, grabbing her by the shoulder and shouting delivery at a startled Bellamy manning the front counter.

 

Monroe’s waiting outside, having had to change her delivery day due to some family affair, and Clarke doesn’t really understand the excitement. Not that Monroe’s not cool, but she’s here every week. In fact, Clarke vaguely wonders where Harper is, assuming that maybe Monroe's schedule change had been too abrupt for Harper to synch up their delivery schedules this week. Then, she looks to her left and notices that Monroe’s small pickup is not the only vehicle currently occupying the alleyway or Octavia’s attention, for that matter, as she lifts an eyebrow watching the taller girl stare intensely at the beat-up blue truck parked behind the flower shop.

 

“Hey, Octavia.” Monroe nods at her, “Clarke.” and then sighs, “So, since mooneyes over there is a little preoccupied you wanna help me get this stuff in.” She gestures to the five boxes sitting in the back - DROPSHIP does good business (Despite Clarke's initial impression of it's emptiness, Bellamy had been right. Business had steadily picked up throughout the night and she'd been stuck on the phone for her first few days making dozens of appointments, booking Raven, Bellamy, and Octavia nearly a week or two in advance for more time-consuming pieces)  and they go through Monroe’s ink pretty quickly, but most of the bulk came from how carefully the girl packaged her creations - wrapping each container a good two or three times in bubble wrap before sorting and placing them in the boxes.

 

“Sure.” Clarke goes to help her lift the first box, each of them taking a side, when Lexa walks out and she just about drops the entire thing on Monroe’s poor feet. She quickly recovers though, Monroe compensating for her lack of control.

 

“What the hell, Clarke? You got it?” Yeah. Oh yeah, she’s got it alright, Clarke thinks, watching the normally taciturn girl push back a brown curl, lips curled up in a small smile, before gently lifting a box of deep purple flowers from the truck.

 

“Yeah. Sorry. I got distracted.”

 

“Obviously.” Monroe grumbles and Clarke tears her gaze away, missing the moment Lexa looks back at her.

 

 

* * *

 

The artist girl walks backwards into the building and Lexa watches her stumble ungracefully into the door before disappearing inside. Her chest tightens a little and she ignores it, focusing back on the flowers, but her concentration is broken again by a voice to her right.

 

“Hey, you guys need help with anything?” It’s Octavia. Yes. That’s her name. Bellamy is her older brother and he owns the tattoo shop. First thing to understand about Lexa is that she doesn’t inherently dislike anyone in particular, she actually quite likes people in general. It’s just - she has a hard time with them one-on-one.  Octavia does not share this trait apparently, raising a hand in an overly familiar wave. Indra stands up in the truck and throws a crate at Octavia and Lexa’s eyes widen and she holds back an indignant squawk at the treatment, her flowers are not garbage to be tossed around, but Octavia catches it gently and not a petal moves out of place. “Got it.” She looks at Indra, eyes shining with something Lexa might pinpoint as admiration. “Where do you want it?”

 

“Inside. To the left.”  Lexa answers and immediately watches some of the spring leave Octavia’s step. She resists the urge to grumble at Octavia’s obvious favor for Indra over her.

 

“Will do.” Octavia heads inside quickly, muscles in her arms visibly flexing underneath the sleeves of her shirt.

 

Once she’s gone Indra turns to her respectively, “You may return to your business if you wish - the girl will be enough help to unload everything in a timely manner.”

 

“Thank you. I will.” Or at least she would, but Bellamy pokes his head into the alley and gives a quick shout to her.

 

“Lexa!” She turns at the entrance, letting Octavia slide past her to reach Indra and the flowers. “Hey,” Bellamy steps carefully over to her, almost like he’s crossing a territorial line Lexa had lifted her leg and peed across, claiming it. “I have another truck coming soon, was just wondering how long yours would be here so I can give them a good time to come?”

 

“I have another delivery coming as well.” Quint. A late order had come in for a conference downtown and he was, unfortunately the only one who had these particular blooms on hand and could deliver them in time. A blunt and thoughtless man, Lexa missed the days his brother worked her route. “But Indra will be gone by,”  She glances down at the tiny leather watch on her wrist, “the half hour and the next truck will not be here until seven.” Behind Bellamy, the blonde artist has come and gone several times. Lexa has noticed, much to her chagrin, every time.

 

“Okay. I’ll make sure we’re out of your way too. You’re welcome to leave the late night deliveries where you normally do.”

 

“Thank you.” Then they nod at each other and walk away.

 

 

* * *

 

Bellamy’s coming back towards the shop and Clarke makes like she wasn’t watching the entire exchange between him and Lexa with wary eyes and dropping hearts. She didn’t know they were friendly with each other.

 

“Hey. Make sure Octavia doesn’t get kidnapped or converted would you?” Bellamy jerks a thumb in the direction of his little sister, who is still running around sweating and panting and working her ass off for a woman who looks at her like she’s something she could scrape off the bottom of her shoe.. “Sometimes, I think she’d run into traffic just to prove something to them.”

 

Clarke snorts, “Yeah, sure.” and then turns back to watch Octavia as Bellamy heads inside. Monroe’s got the paperwork out and follows him inside to finish it up. Lexa’s there now, looking back, and Clarke’s head jerks a little in surprise, eyes widening almost imperceptibly. She has what Raven termed her ‘resting bitch face’ on and is heading over here. _Oh god_.

 

Octavia follows behind the other woman, who Clarke does not know, walking beside her until they cross over to the tattoo parlour’s portion of the alley. Clarke feels Octavia move behind her and it makes her feel a little more confident, “Clarke. Indra.” She points to the older woman wearing a tank top with Tree Garden printed in neat floral script across the bosom, sleeves rolled up to reveal well-toned biceps. “Indra, Clarke. She’s our new artist.”

 

 _Clarke_. Lexa’s lungs flutter a little bit at this tidbit of knowledge and she steps forward, ahead of Indra.  “Hello, again.”  She says, not really sure why she’s trying to make conversation with a girl who obviously has no interest in speaking with her. Clarke does not answer - again - and even though it’s not unexpected something withers in Lexa.

 

Octavia side eyes Clarke weirdly at Lexa’s greeting and Clarke just nods her head, probably far too many times, in some semblance of a response. Lexa’s still intimidating, even with dirt smeared across her cheek and chin, sweat polishing her brow and Clarke wishes she could bring forth the vocabulary she’s used to speak with in the past. Clarke catches Lexa’s eye this time, smeared with dirt and eyeliner, and manages to hold it for a bit, finally feeling herself center a bit at the contact - it’s not her best show of confidence, but it will do for now.

 

“I will be taking my leave.” Indra looks at Octavia. “Thank you for your assistance.” Octavia smiles widely, far too pleased with herself, but Clarke can understand a little what it’s like to want affirmation from a single person so badly. (She’d ignored how her mother’s voice had stalled in sadness, disappointment when Clarke had first told her about dropping out.) “Quint,” Indra sneers out, “will arrive around seven if he’s not late. ”

 

“So, there will be nothing in the alley to block your delivery except during that time.” Lexa finishes.

 

Indra has an obvious dislike for whoever Quint is, spitting out the name like acid on her tongue, which is the only reason Clarke realizes she tolerates Octavia, maybe even likes her. The flower people are weird she decides, watching them walk away without saying anything else.

 

Octavia gets this awed look in her eye, watching Indra rotate and stretch her muscled shoulders as she climbs into the cab of her truck. “What a badass.”

 

“What the actual fuck is wrong with you?” Monroe. Asking the important questions.

 

Clarke smiles as Octavia gets an exaggerated offended look on her face, turning to defend herself to Monroe, but her eyes don't stray long, returning to watch Lexa clean what’s left of the flower order off the alley ground with a broom, sweeping away the bits and parts that swirl around her feet. A part of her wants to offer to help, but she's nearly positive that would not be welcomed based on the way Clarke has treated her (awkward movements, strange stares, uncharacteristic silence that Clarke couldn’t explain if she tried except that Lexa is beautiful and has an air about her that screams impassable at anyone in a ten foot radius. Okay. Maybe she could sort of give an explanation.) and when Lexa catches her staring again, Clarke immediately turns and walks away,  ignoring the prickling on the back of her neck, like maybe she wasn't the only one who couldn't look away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come hang at fuscience.tumblr.com


	3. i could be wrong about anyone else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke makes a mistake that brings her in to close and frequent contact with Lexa. She discovers it's not the worst thing in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter! let me know what you think. I'm super excited about the next chapter though, things start coming together.
> 
> the lengths of the chapters are probs going to vary a bit because i have no idea what pacing is, but they will all be at least 6k.
> 
> as always, grammar is not my forte, especially editing chapters of this size so if you see anything let me know that as well!

Like clockwork, Clarke sees the bowl of food left out every evening when she leaves, small and yellow, filled with some type of gruel, and watches the girl ( _Lexa_ , her name is Lexa. Clarke repeats it to herself seven times, forwards and backwards, committing it to memory)  refill it in the morning. It’s been a week since the delivery in the alley - nearly two since her disastrous attempt to finish the painting, and without fail there are two constants in Clarke’s routine now. Lexa and her eyes, and Lexa and her bowl.

She comes in at 11 a.m., as the parlour opens, and Lexa is there, laying out the bowl of god-knows-what like always. Clarke waves now. So, that’s new. Lexa waves back too which nearly sends Clarke’s poor heart into palpitations every morning (Lexa’s stomach twists and her fingers tingle and she feels stupid curling the digits tentatively at Clarke so it’s mutual even if neither of them know it).

They wave numbly at each other for a moment before turning away and busying themselves with other activities - Lexa returns to her shop, maybe dragging out a watering can or the hose, and Clarke walks inside. Bellamy stands when she walks in and crosses his arms like he’s trying to be an authority figure and obviously failing. He’s a good motivator, Clarke always feels inspired around him, but Bellamy feels less like her boss, and more like her equal. Clarke stares at him and quirks an eyebrow, setting her bag down while she waits for him to speak.

He claps his hands together and rubs them up and down.

“So, it’s been a month and I know you’ve just been doing piercings, but I thought maybe I could watch you ink something. O says you’re as awesome on dead fruit as you are on paper.” Bellamy gives a little half-grin, obviously trying to joke and put her at ease because this is a big deal, but something in Clarke seizes up, even as they walk over to the empty station that will one day be hers. “I haven’t seen it and, you know, maybe we can get you started on actual people soon.”

“Um, I just - I need to go outside for just a sec. Forgot something.” Forgot how to breathe. Clarke abruptly turns and walks away before Bellamy can respond and leaves him standing there, eyes narrowed.

“You were just out there though.” He says to an empty studio.

She steps outside for just a moment, just to breathe.

He wants to watch her use the gun. The gun with the vibrating needle that pierces skin and digs deep into the derma and it’s not like Clarke hasn’t now done it a thousand times on things non-living (non-bleeding), but nobody has ever been standing there, looking over her shoulder while she does it. She’s afraid. She’s scared her hand will start trembling, that the blood will run cold in her veins as she brings the point to whatever material Bellamy wants her to use. She used to be good at this, she used to look at a syringe and a patient, and stare unflinchingly into the possibility of death with ease. Now, it’s taking everything to even consider picking that needle up - no matter what form it’s in.

When she looks up, her chest slowing from a harsh to a gentle shuddering Lexa is still standing outside, hose in hand, watching. Clarke is momentarily stunned and then ashamed, face flushing at being caught in the middle of her small panic attack. (They'd been much worse, so much worse at the beginning. Every little reminder sending her into full-on clenching chest, empty lungs attacks, making it impossible to participate in any hands on seminars).

"Hi." She says, straightening up and sniffing. Lexa looks unfazed.

"Hello."

They stare at each other a moment and Lexa doesn't think much of it except that if the girl did not want a witness to her weakness than she might have gone farther than the Blake's store front. Clarke swallows and her eyes flash fire and brimstone at Lexa, maybe sensing her judgement, daring her to say anything, but Lexa just continues to stare passively.

"Okay. I'm," Lexa watches the girl - _Clarke_ \-  collect herself, impressively, if she were willing to comment. "just going to go."

She nods dumbly, as if giving Clarke permission to leave, then Clarke turns and walks swiftly back into DROPSHIP, leaving Lexa alone on the sidewalk, water still dribbling out of the end of her hose.

* * *

 

“Ready now?” Bellamy is still standing there, a little weirded out by her abrupt departure and return, but waiting patiently nonetheless.

“Yeah. I’m good.” The needle doesn’t seem so scary anymore, not with visions of Lexa bursting behind her eyelids, driving her forward.

* * *

 

Bellamy watches her for a little while as she works on a piece of fake skin ( _ew. ew. like fucking jello_ ).

“Elbow a little higher, princess.”

“Like this?”

“Yeah, that’s good.”

Then, she’s done and one of Lexa’s flowers, a pretty purple one that she’d seen on her front step this morning is peeking out at them and Bellamy’s giving her an impressed smile, clapping a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Very good job, princess.”

Something almost like pride comes alive in Clarke’s chest.

* * *

 

Lexa walks back into the shop. She hadn’t expected the girl - _Clarke_ \- to talk to her. After two greetings being met with silence and averted eyes, she’d assumed that would be it, but they were waving at each other now and - and she’d talked to her. (That shouldn’t make her as happy as it does.)

“Ma’am.” Gustus is waiting for her at the register, her store associate for the day. His shift must have started while she was making mooneyes at Clarke and it’s quite pathetic how quickly she lost track of time, over-watering her plants in the hope that she would catch another glimpse of Clarke.

“Gustus. Welcome.”

He stares at her knowingly. “I saw you meeting the Blake’s new hire.” Her face smooths over neutrally and she raises her chin imperiously at his question.

“I have met her before and Clarke has been working there over a month - not exactly new.” And that’s not exactly helping her. At all. Lexa realizes, a moment too late as Gustus raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t ask though. He doesn’t ask how Lexa knew how long Clarke had been working despite the obvious interest it implies. He doesn’t ask and Lexa is reminded of why she has kept him around all these years.

“You won’t be here forever, ma’am. Time is almost up.”

“I know that.” She looks Gustus in the eye, molten steel clashing with calm winds, “I do not need you to remind me.”

“Apologies.” He bows his head and clears his throat. “Protect yourself.”

“Of course.”

Lexa needs to stick her hands in some dirt, cool them and her temper off, but as she’s digging through some fertilizer composted in the back it hits her what was different about this encounter. In the past, Clarke had looked hesitant and unsure. When Clarke looked at her this time it was with fire, blazing and strong, a very scary thing for someone who lives among things that burn so easily.

But.

She _liked_ her eyes. They bloomed with life.

* * *

 

The parlour opens as quietly as it closes nearly every day of the week  and Clarke goes around on a Wednesday night collecting the trash from the day, topped off with inky, bloody wipes as well as the full sharps container filled with used needles that have to be discarded separate from the everyday take-out containers and cardboard boxes . The bags are piled up next to the back door and just as Clarke presses on the bar to open the door  Octavia rounds the corner and gives a panicked shout. It’s too late though, they can both hear the crash of many things toppling over behind the door and Clarke stands frozen, hand still perched on the handle, body still thrust against the door while Octavia stares at her in barely contained horror.

“You’re fucked.” She says, mouth still hanging open and Clarke’s face twists in confusion.

“What?” She hisses as Octavia pushes past her and peeks outside the door.

“Totally, ass up, fucked.” Clarke sticks her head around the edge to see what Octavia sees and gazes on in horror. Milk crates full of soil and flowers fallen and scattered in the back alley - half are filthy from the alley water and the rest are smothering each other. She thinks of Indra’s icy stare and Lexa’s blank glare and shivers.

“Jesus christ, why didn’t anyone tell me those were there!?” Clarke turns and yells, letting her anger echo off the walls of the tattoo shop, looking at Octavia and then Monroe and, finally, Jasper, who had wandered back at the noise. Apparently, everyone had shown up today to witness her royal fuck up.

“Oh no.” Harper cringes, “Lexa’s delivery?” Jasper shakes his head, grimacing in sympathy at Clarke.

“Did literally everyone know about this but me?!” Clarke can hear the pitch of her voice rising in panic - she’s not sure what trouble this will bring, but it can’t be good. She also doesn't know why she's panicking. She doesn't know Lexa, but her reputation in the shop is not a kind one and their condolences are doing nothing but making Clarke's heart beat faster. (Like Lexa's stare). “What should I do? Why were they even there?”

Raven frowns at her, “Bellamy let’s her leave late night deliveries out back. I think she likes to leave her door clear for the cats.”

“Oh. For the cats. Cats. Of course. Makes complete fucking sense.”

“Calm down, princess.” Raven goes up and hugs her and Clarke lowers her arms so that they are trapped in the embrace as she relaxes a little into it.  “Don’t get killed, okay.”

“ _Jesus fucking christ_.”

This all feels a little too dramatic for someone simply going to apologize to the cranky flower girl next door, but Clarke’s not going to turn down a hug - it’s been a while, and she thinks Raven’s surprised a little bit when Clarke suddenly throws her arms around her and squeezes. But, in truly Raven fashion, she just stands there and let’s Clarke hug her back until she’s done.

“Thanks.” She pulls back and bites her lip and trying to decide if now’s a good time to take advantage of the situation and ask,  “As a final request, can I have the DROPSHIP drawing?”

Raven laughs and shoves her away, “My masterpiece?!” but then proceeds to rip the paper off the wall without a second thought and crumples it up into a ball.

“Raven!” Clarke’s a little heartbroken because she loved that piece, no matter how little Raven thought of it.

“Here. Take it. Jeez.” She throws the paper ball at Clarke’s head who let’s it hit her shoulder before catching it.

“Thanks.”

“You already said that. Just make sure the frowning flower girl doesn’t blow _up_ our ship.”

_Alright_. Clarke tucks the drawing into the bottom drawer of her desk and takes a deep breath. 

* * *

 

Clarke doesn’t actually work up the nerve to go apologize until the next day and Octavia warns her that Lexa has seen the mess late last night and been informed of what had occurred.  She looks unnerved and Clarke apologizes, but Octavia assures her that Lexa didn’t yell or, well, she didn’t really do anything but start collecting the boxes - going through the broken flowers one by one and when Octavia had closed shop at 11 p.m. Lexa had still been there in the back alley, meticulously digging through the wreckage. Clarke wishes she had yelled.

A bell rings above the door as she enters and startles Clarke, who is officially tired of that particular trend in stores. She prefers a silent entrance.

"Hi." Lexa turns and there’s a girl standing in her doorway - _Clarke_. She is the one that Lexa has somehow managed to make eye contact with once a day, every day for the past two weeks - since the blonde first started showing up around here and the one she found panicking in front of her shop three days ago.

Clarke fidgets, waiting for a response while Lexa's stare weighs on her, heaviness settling above her chest as her heartbeat race a little. She fingers the stalk of a nearby flower, twisting it nervously, aware she may not be the most welcome of intruders.

"So, you're the one who destroyed three hundred of my flowers?" She returns to clipping some flowers, carefully cutting the stalks before arranging them in a vase and Clarke wonders how many times she must have stared at the mess in the back alley and counted the ruined blooms. _Three hundred_. Clarke winces, and purses her lips. No one’s face should scream of murder while standing in front of a vase full of daffodils - it's disconcerting.

"You’re the one who left them sitting outside the shop’s backdoor." Her voice is defensive and definitely not the apology she was looking to make - at the same time, as sorry as she is that the flowers were destroyed it’s still not her fault that they were blocking a door and no one _told her_.

Lexa had to throw out the pants she’d been wearing yesterday, muddied and torn. She’d kneeled in that alley for hours scrounging for any surviving flowers, feeling her stupid, stupid heart trying to beat it’s way out of her chest as she threw broken stem after broken stem in the dumpster. She was furious and sad and things so beautiful should not just be left on the ground to die.

“They were my favorite.” Lexa says stepping out from behind the counter and coming way too far into Clarke’s personal bubble. She looms over her, chin up, looking down her aristocratic nose at Clarke and Clarke is suddenly both frightened and angry at the look in Lexa’s eyes.

_Oh my god_. Clarke thinks, Octavia was right. She hopes they’ll give her a nice funeral. She’s only known them for a month, but they’ve been through a lot together right? They’ve gotten drunk together and there was that one time Clarke clocked a frat boy who was pushing Harper too hard for her number at midnight last Saturday. That counts for something, right?

“It was an accident. I didn't know they were there.” She says and prepares to fight her way out of the flower shop, with it’s bright cheery windows and beautiful products and deadly owner. Clarke deflates a little when Lexa doesn’t reply, simply  moving away to grab the small arrangement and placing it on a shelf with other similar ones, pre-done for purchase.

Lexa’s anger has cooled over the years and she can’t bring herself to stay mad at Clarke when she stares at her with a challenge behind her eyes.

This particular bouquet was made from a smaller, separate order Indra had brought in a day early. A collection of iris reticulate, she admires it, both for it’s color and that it is one of the few survivors of winter’s frost. Lexa can always bring forth respect for survivors. This hadn’t been part of Indra’s normal supply, blooming slightly early and coming from outside the normal growth area. She loves the local flowers and while she understands what happened with the doors and the delivery, Lexa is also still thinking of all the lives ended far too soon, the lost revenue, and, yeah, a small part of her is enjoying watching the artist from next door continually having to steel herself for Lexa’s next scathing comment.

“I’m Clarke, by the way.”

“I know.” Lexa’s bent over behind the counter, searching for something, and Clarke hesitates but a moment before walking over towards her. She came over to make peace and she wasn’t going until some type of tentative truce existed between them. “Here.” A small flower is abruptly shoved in Clarke’s face and she nearly goes cross-eyed looking at it.

“What is this?”

“It’s the last one left from the shipment.” Clarke’s face softens a bit because she think this might be a peace offering, an ‘it’s okay you accidentally ruined a week’s worth of inventory’ flower, but then she has to sneeze.

It sneaks up on her like so many summer colds and blows out with a giant noise that Clarke is unable to stop.

The tiny petals sway and a couple fall off delicately, floating to the ground and Clarke watches them go, eyes wide, and then quickly jerks her head up to look at Lexa who is also watching the flower fall apart with an equally shocked expression. She doesn’t say anything as Clarke collects the small petals on the ground, grabs what’s left of the plant from Lexa’s hand and walks out, face flushing with embarrassment.

* * *

 

She runs past everyone in the parlour, all looking at her like she’s grown a second head, and makes her way to her desk.

There’s got to be a way to make this right.

The flower petals are scattered across her desk, lying on top of the unfinished painting of Lexa’s shop and Clarke tilts her head, looking at it for a second.

She wonders if Lexa appreciates art.

Clarke comes back an hour later, small framed painting wrapped and tucked underneath her arm. Lexa’s got her glasses on now, back behind the counter and reading over a stack of  paper. When the bell rings as she enters ( _god dammit_ , one day Clarke will snap and disable every single fucking bell in every single fucking shop on this fucking street), Lexa looks up at her and her eyes visibly narrow and any friendly rapport they’d built early is obviously gone under a tide of uneasiness. She won’t be stopped though. Parchment paper covers the painting, the exact same one Lexa had admired as Clarke had sat outside her shop not even a week ago and, with the modifications Clarke’s made, if there’s any bloody cardiac muscle beating beneath Lexa’s bony sternum (Clarke suspects there is because who the hell keeps a single flower from a destroyed shipment and then, forks it over to the girl who did the destroying if they don’t feel _something_ about the entire situation)  it should go over well. Clarke hopes.

“Here. I’m sorry for sneezing. And for other things.” She holds out her art and waits for Lexa to take it, warily watching the other girl and wondering if she’s imagining how her body doesn’t seem quite as tense as when Clarke first entered the shop.

Lexa accepts the gift easily enough but pauses and glances at her, amusement dancing behind her eyes. “You are not good at apologies.”

She unwraps it, peeling away the layers of paper to reveal the portrait of Lexa’s pride and joy.  Having glued on the last remaining flower petals around Lexa’s head on the painting, Clarke frames her in the painting in a way that Lexa is almost embarrassed about, seeing how focused on her it is, but Clarke is handing it over to her as a gift, an apology, and Lexa is nothing if not politie. She sighs and looks up.

“Lexa.” Clarke purses her lips, tilting her head questioningly. “That’s my name.”

“I know.” Lexa stares at her, eyes wide and soft, with confusion. “I, uh, draw your shop a lot and, um, Octavia mentioned who owned the place.” She reaches a hand up to rub the back of her neck nervously and watches Lexa who’s watching her. Long, meaningful stares are beginning to become their modus operandi and Clarke is still trying not to read anything into it.

“Oh. This - It’s very beautiful. Thank you.” It’s said with such sincere honesty that Clarke’s jaw drops a little and her face heats up. She’s never learned to take a compliment - especially from pretty girls.

“You’re welcome.”

Now, that she’s closer to Lexa and, also, not fearing for her life, Clarke can take a moment to look at her - really look at her like she hasn’t been able to in the passing moments they’ve had coming and going into their respective workplaces, and she finally notices the braids, tightly wound back against the sides of her head, wavy brown hair flowing over them, and what looks to be a tongue piercing that glints in the sunlight every time she enunciates a word. Her plain green tank top falls in folds over her breasts and waist, tucked into high waisted jean shorts that show off toned legs and the hint of some tattoo on the top of her right thigh. Her stomach clenches a bit when she tries to imagine lifting the hem of those shorts and peeking at whatever design might lay beneath them. Clarke wonders if there are other hidden things etched into Lexa’s skin.

"It was Indra’s delivery.” Clarke cringes, imagining the older woman’s scowl. “She always bring the best flowers, as do my other suppliers, of course, but hers are grown locally - that’s why they are my favorite. She will understand the accident.” Lexa’s words are terse, but she hopes they offer some comfort, some understanding to Clarke that this accident will be handled with very little overall damage. Customers are aware of the quality that this business provides, but Lexa is pragmatic about business. What’s done is done and Clarke does not look like a person able to make monetary reparations. Lexa will deal with the loss of inventory as she does every other mishap, with intelligence and grace.

"By the way, I was thinking maybe I could help out in the store. For the next few deliveries - in return for the last one ending up all over the cement?" Clarke pauses, she doesn’t know why she’s offering, "This is not an admission of guilt though - I just feel bad about it, even though it's not all my fault."

Lexa raises a brow, "You are really not good at apologies." And then shrugs before Clarke can respond, a teasing smile gracing her lips.  "Ok.”

It’s a very nice smile, Clarke thinks.

"Ok?" She asks, just to double check - she really wasn't sure her help would be accepted.

"That is what I said." Lexa licks her lips and Clarke stares, subtlety escaping her, "I open at 7 a.m. but you may come in whenever you'd like. Deliveries are on Wednesday mornings - be here for that. The assistance would be appreciated.” Clarke’s help is unnecessary, but it’s also not _unwanted_. She was very interesting, Clarke-from-next-door who works at a tattoo parlour and has no visible tattoos, who looks at her every morning like eye contact is a battle (Lexa thinks she’s losing and it’s a very strange feeling indeed).

“Ok, then.” Clarke sticks out her hand and Lexa stares down at it, glasses slipping to the end of her nose. When  Lexa doesn’t take it Clarke withdraws and walks backwards towards the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

* * *

 

Clarke comes in on Thursday to help, walking in a little more assuredly with her bag slung over her shoulder. It’s only ten in the morning and the DROPSHIP doesn’t open for another hour. She figures she’ll come in for an hour or two before her shifts for a week or so and then beg off after a delivery and that’ll be that. In debt no more.

She stands outside the shop for an embarrassing amount of time, not scared or intimidated as she previously felt, but just curious about what would happen, what she would be doing around the shop.

“Hello.”

 “ _Fuck_!” Clarke jumps and turns to see Lexa.

Lexa exits with the watering can still in her hand to find the girl - Clarke -  standing outside her door. She’s wearing black shorts and a flowing tank today that let’s Lexa catch glances of the skin of her abdomen whenever a breeze blows by and it’s as she watches the shirt rise twice in a row that Lexa realizes she’s been staring too long. Clarke clearing her throat is also a good indication.

“Hey. So.” Clarke takes a breath, “I’m here and ready to work. What can I do?”

“Right. Come with me.” They enter the shop and Clarke follows the other girls lead as she weaves in and out of the displays. Clarke’s amazed by the sheer color of the shop all the different greens and yellows, deep reds and blues - they weave together into a kaleidoscope image that she doubts could ever be truly captured by her hand, no matter how she may wish to try.

Lexa has an apron on today, nearly yellowed with age and smeared with all shades of brown - dark dirt brown, light dirt brown, a taupe that may be clay and it’s obvious she’s been working for quite sometime already. Clarke momentarily wonders if she should come earlier, but she’s unsure if she could wake up. (She’d spent so much time in bed, unable to sleep, sleeping too much and it had all been exhausting - forcing herself to try and adhere to her previous schedule, one that her body just did not want anything to do with. Between classes in the day and nights spent crying, Clarke had found herself skipping more and more the lectures that she found herself unable, unwilling to attend until she’d finally looked at the pile of work, the failing grades and submitted her withdrawal from the program. That had been months ago and Clarke had still not fully returned to a sleep schedule that was less than ten hours a night. )

“I thought you might do some of the simpler tasks.”

Clarke raises a teasing eyebrow. “You mean grunt work.” A small smile twitches at the corner of Lexa’s lips.

“ _Shit_ work.” She corrects and Clarke laughs. Lexa looks pleased with herself, preening at her ability to crack a joke, to make Clarke smile. A pit of regret forms in the bottom of her stomach and she swallows, trying to push it away - she should be happy, Clarke is laughing with her and she is surrounded by her flowers and Lexa is smiling. It’s been years. Lexa should be allowed to smile without the overwhelming guilt threatening to drown her, but she’s learned that her emotions are all or nothing. She takes the bit of happiness and let’s the guilt eat away at it or she refuses to feel anything at all - no joy, no regret. It’s an oscillating cycle depending on the day and today, Lexa wants to smile. For Clarke, she wants to smile.

“Well, then I’m perfect for the job.” Clarke watches the smile slip off Lexa’s face and the careful neutral expression take over again and wonders what triggered it. Her own laughter peters off into the shop, echoes of their moment lying in the shadows of the sunlight streaming through the windows.

There are buckets lined up on the counter (lots and lots and lots of buckets. Lexa’s shop is big, but wow.) and Lexa gestures towards them. “I would like you to empty out these buckets, throw away the old flowers and just stack them up.”

“Okay. That I can do.” She looks around for a moment. “Maybe. Uh, so where is everything?” She sounds confident, even though her body betrays the underlying sheepishness, fidgeting and tapping her fingers against her side. Lexa almost smiles again (too easy, Clarke makes it too easy to be happy) and crooks a finger at her assistant for the morning, directing her to follow.

“Back here.” She shows Clarke her office and drags out the trashcan for old flowers - she’ll dump them in the compost pile herself later. “You can use this trashcan and here -” A pair of scissors is dragged out from under a cabinet as well as an oversized pair of grey gardening gloves. “The gloves might be a little too big - I’m afraid Gustus is the only one who leaves his here and he is… quite large.”

Lexa shrugs helplessly as Clarke puts the gloves on and they are indeed oversized, the tips hanging off her fingers like oversized bulbs.

“Ha. I look like an alien.” She waves her hands at Lexa who stares at her blankly.

Lexa is forced to restrain her amusement as she watches Clarke continually tug on the gloves while they move all the necessary supplies closer to the flowers Clarke will be removing. As they are stepping out, Clarke stops in front of her and she looks to where the girl’s gaze is drawn, to the far wall, to the painting hanging above her desk. She’d placed it there because in the morning when she trudged down during the early hours, the sunrise would stream through a window on the adjacent wall and hit it just right, making the paint and dead flower petals come alive for a moment. Just a moment.

“You hung up my painting.”

Lexa can feel her face heating up and she falters, freezing where she stands, a bundle of plumerias in her fist. “Yes. I - It was um nice.”  She looks up unsurely. “You’re very talented.”

“Thank you.”

“I am only speaking the truth. There is no need to thank me.” This makes Clarke smile wider and she just nods and let’s Lexa have her pride, even if that dismisses the kindness of her gesture.

She sets to work on the buckets because there are many and, while the task itself is fairly simple, it looks like it might take a while. Clarke doesn’t know flowers. After all the ones she’s painted, it’s amazing that she managed to not absorb anything about the subject matter, but she doesn’t know the difference between a weed and a prized rose. So, she admires the colors, clipping the still green stalks so the wilted tops and stems fit into the trash bag. There’s a deep purple that Clarke really admires, and one species that has a black tie-dyed inside and yellow outside that reminds her of sunsets and bumblebees. Her favorite comes out of a bucket about knee high, tall and bright - sunflowers.

“There’s so many different types.” She observes.

Lexa stops what’s she’s doing (It’s May, the beginning of wedding season and there’s at least half a dozen custom orders coming up in the next two weeks)  and looks over at Clarke, who’s fingering a layered pink flower.

“I have many suppliers. My flowers come from all over.”

“What kind of flower is this? The petals are cool.” Clarke imagines it would be very interesting to draw the overlapping petals - it’s familiar. She thinks she’s seen cartoonized versions of it spread all over Bellamy’s desk.

Lexa comes over and draws the flower out of her hand, cradling it gently even though it is long past it’s expiration date and near death. “A peony. Genus Paeonia. It received it’s name from Paeon, a student of Asclepius, the greek god of medicine.” The information comes out on reflex, her head bursting with knowledge on all the flowers she sells.

“Oh.” Clarke still looks interested, so Lexa continues.

“The mythology says that Asclepius became jealous of his pupil but, before Asclepius could destroy Paeon, Zeus came and saved him, turning the man into a peony flower. It is also known as the “flower of riches and honour” in China - it was the national flower during the early 20th century Qing dynasty.”

“I’ve seen them a lot, I think. They’re popular in tattoo designs - Bellamy seems to do a lot of them.”

“Peonies became popularized in tattoos due to their depiction on the tattoos of warrior-heroes in the artist Utagawa Kuniyoshi’s illustrative depiction of Suikoden, a serialized novel from China. It was also a favorite subject in the french artist Renoir’s paintings.” Lexa moves and grabs a bundle of flowers from the bucket of dead peonies Clarke had been disposing of, spreading them out on the counter

 

“You see here. They are all peonies.” Clarke comes to look over Lexa’s shoulder, chin nearly resting against the taller girl’s bare skin and Lexa freezes, the air leaving her lungs. Hot puffs of air tickle her ear and she can feel her heart beat speed up. Lexa takes a shuddering breath before continuing. “This is an Itoh intersectional hybrid.” She points up a dusty pink flower with uneven petals “It’s a cross between the herbaceous and shrub growth types. And this one,” Lexa finds another with small white petals, encased in larger dark pink ones, “is called the bowl of beauty and here,” Clarke angles her head slightly as Lexa’s speech speeds up in excitement, eyes widening in happiness, watching the color rise in her cheeks as she points to three more flowers. Clarke is slightly ashamed, but she completely misses what Lexa says then, caught up in watching instead of listening.

“Flowers are amazing.” She says, and watches Lexa’s eyes alight with something like pride. Pride is a wonderful trait, despite it’s shortcomings Clarke has gone so long without finding something worthwhile that it delights her to see such joy rage in someone else.

“There are thirty-eight species of peonies and they are all distinct if you know what to look for.”

“And you do?”

“Of course.” Clarke stares at her in wonder, a small, strange smile on her lips.

“What?” Lexa swallows, unsure if she has spoken out of place or simply talked for too long. “Did I misspeak?”

“I just - you’re such a nerd. You’re a total flower nerd and I didn’t see it.”

Lexa laughs, slowly, before showing Clarke a quiet smile. Clarke watches her face come alive and can’t help but let herself soften a little bit.

She made her laugh. She did that. Again.

“Thank you, Clarke.” She tips her head a little bit and it should not be as endearing as Clarke finds it to be, but it is. “I am indeed a flower nerd. I like them very much.”

She hands the peony back to Clarke and their hands brush, alighting on each other a little longer than necessary, before Clarke pulls away abruptly and moves to toss the dead flower. When Lexa’s back is turned, Clarke frowns and rubs her hand like she’s been burned.

They quiet down after that because there is work to do and Clarke only has until eleven to be here as her shift at DROPSHIP starts. She does actually want to be of _some_ use to Lexa.

* * *

 

Lexa goes into her office for a while, paperwork calling to her. Something she’s learned in the past two years, since opening the shop, is that there is no escape from the dredges of signing silly sheets of paper, even with dirt under your fingernails and flowers in your hair. When she exits after about ten minutes of mind-numbing reading and a particularly infuriating notice from her supplier up north, Lexa is greeted with the sight of her volunteer leaning over the table, talking to the table of unbloomed buds in the far right corner.

Clarke cooes at the young flowers, smiling, and seems to be in a good mood. Lexa is reminded of her wide, frightened eyes earlier in the week as she’d wandered out of the next door parlour and subsequently fled back inside when Lexa had made her presence known

“Clarke.”

“Oh!” The girl jumps and turns but quickly regains herself. “Hey. Sorry. Talking to them - it’s silly.”

“I sing to them.” Lexa reveals, face placid until she sees Clarke relax. “Clarke.”

Clarke likes how Lexa says her name very much, the little click on the end, the harsh emphasis on the -k.

“I noticed you were distressed last week. Do you -" She starts to offer an ear to listen to Clarke’s woes and then reconsiders, settling for something less intimate.  "Are you feeling better this week?"

Lexa's voice is soft and hesitating to Clarke's ears and she can't help but flinch at the question. "I'm fine." It comes out more abrasive than Clarke intended and she can see Lexa visibly recoil and withdraw. A lump gets lodged in her throat because she doesn't want Lexa to go away, but she knows that’s exactly what will happen now that she snapped. She should apologize. She should, but she can’t.

"Very well then." It was wise to stay impersonal with Clarke, Lexa concludes.

Lexa doesn't press Clarke for answers as to her attitude and for that Clarke is thankful. She's not ready to talk - with anyone. They pass the rest of the morning in comfortable silence, or, at least, Clarke believes it to be comfortable. Lexa hasn’t shown any signs of being offended by Clarke’s earlier shortness and Clarke will take that as a good sign. Before either of them notice it’s 11:05 and Clarke was supposed to be next door five minutes ago. It’s the first time she’s been late since she started working at DROPSHIP and she tries not to read too much into her reluctance to leave the flower shop, to leave Lexa.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Lexa looks a little surprised, before nodding her head.

“Clarke?” Before the other girl can exit, Lexa softly calls her name and she is infinitely relieved when Clarke stops and turns to her. She feared reverting to their earlier lack of interaction. It had been so long since she’d felt so nice around someone who didn’t work for her and before her bravery leaves her, Lexa finds herself pushing a peony, bright and pink into Clarke’s surprised hands.

“Thanks. It’s beautiful.”

_You’re beautiful._

Clarke would be back tomorrow and Lexa's stomach flutters in anticipation.

* * *

 

Nathan Miller works at the caf́e on Howell street two blocks over. It has the best cherry muffins Clarke has ever ate and that was an undisputable fact.

Which is why she was pleasantly surprised to find a box of four assorted muffins, including a cherry, waiting at the front desk, along with a batch of cannoli’s, several sandwiches and Nathan Miller himself.

“Hey, Nate.” Bellamy smiles wide and true grabbing his friend’s hand and pulling him in for some type of manly, bro chest-bump hug. Clarke wasn’t sure what exactly to call the movement, but it was fun to watch.

“Hey, man. Brought some of yesterday’s stock we didn’t sell - thought y’all might be eating your underwear by now, based on what I saw in your fridge last time.”

Octavia rounds the corner and gives an enthusiastic shout, “Already cannibalized Jasper I’m afraid. Alas, he shall be missed.” She places her hand over her heart, “By two people. Monty and Maya. That’s it. That is all who shall miss him.”

“Shut up, Octavia.” Jasper yelled, sitting in front on the couch with his laptop open.

Clarke, giddy with the rush of her first morning with Lexa, laughs at Octavia as she makes her way quickly over to her desk, clenching Lexa’s flower in her right hand. Withdrawing a leatherbound notebook, one of her old sketchbooks she used for reference occasionally, she opens it up to a page near the front, placing the peony gently between it’s pages before closing it and pressing.

Octavia’s shouting at Bellamy for taking the one pistachio-chocolate chip muffin (both the sibling’s favorite) and Clarke turns around just in time to watch Monty walk through the front door of the shop and press a quick kiss to the cheek of Nathan’s face. Her and Octavia stare on in stunned silence while Bellamy uses Octavia’s distraction to stuff the last of the muffin into his mouth. They share a look and Octavia motions for her to come over.

“Uh. Hey, Monty.”

“Hey, Octavia.” He replies brightly, grabbing a second muffin basket hidden behind Nate’s back, thanking him in the process with another peck on the cheek. Miller smiles smugly and Clarke just can’t hold back her curiosity any longer.

“Monty, I thought you liked Harper?” They all stare, mostly at her, but Octavia sits at attention, waiting for a response from Monty while Miller stands awkwardly in the background, arms crossed defensively. Monty just looks perplexed.

“Harper?”

“You - you. “ Clarke stutters and Octavia jumps in for her.

“You fucking blush whenever she touches you!”

Miller’s eyes flicker nervously at Monty and Clarke feels a little bad for him, discovering your crush has a crush on someone else is not a pleasant experience.

“What? No.” Monty still looks confused, muffin basket cradled in his hands. “Oh.” His eyes widen in understanding and he blushes. “Harper brings me notes from, um, Nate. She gets coffee at his shop on delivery days and he writes me stuff.”

Clarke nods in comprehension while Octavia is still standing, flabbergasted at how wrong they were in their weeks of observing the three stooges during delivery.

"Wait until I tell Raven." Octavia whispers.

Jasper sidles up to the group, Maya leading him out by his hand for their Tuesday night movie date, and comments, “Monty’s been dating Miller for three months. Are y’all fucking blind?” before walking out the door, bell ringing throughout.

She elbows Octavia to grab her attention and divert it away from Monty who is now officially alternating between dying of embarrassment and staring defiantly back at them.

“At least this means Harper’s got a chance with Monroe.”

Octavia raises an eyebrow, “Just because she’s got one less competitor does not make Monroe any less oblivious.”

Clarke scrunches her lips and then shrugs in agreement. There’s no argument to make there.

* * *

After the excitement of Monty and Miller's relationship dies down, Bellamy shoos them all back to work. Raven walks in at three and flips her shit for a total of two minutes before shrugging and dragging in a box of mechanical scraps that she deems far more interesting than the going-ons of her friends.

 

“Fuck!” Clarke gives a little yelp at the fat, orange cat that jumps on top of her station desk. “What the fuck?”

Octavia glances up for a moment from where she sits hunched over a beefy calf, stenciling in a tribal design. “Hmmm? Oh, that’s one of Lexa’s.”  

“What?’

“Yeah - she leaves food out for the stray cats so, they all congregate in our alley. Remember, that’s why I think she asks to put her night deliveries in front of our store.” Raven cuts in, shrugging, “They’re some of the few living things that can tolerate her presence.”

Clarke frowns at the slight cut, almost wanting to defend the girl next door, but she thinks Lexa can take care of herself . “Yeah, I’ve seen her put the bowl out. Didn’t know it was for cats though, or that they snuck inside.”

“Yep. You can just stick it in the back alley. Lexa’s had ‘em all fixed and it’ll just wander back to her shop eventually.” Clarke gently pokes the cat and when it doesn’t move, she picks it up - relieved to find it friendly and not scratching her eyes out.

“No. I’ll take it over.” Octavia raises an eyebrow.

“Okay. Whatever.”

It’s an excuse to go back. Clarke knows that. She recognizes what she’s using the cat for, but it doesn’t stop her feet from vibrating a little bit in anticipation of returning to Lexa’s shop. It’s unwise because Clarke is healing and Lexa is one of the most emotionally unavailable people Clarke has spent a morning with in quite some time - splitting her time between eyeing Clarke up with interest and frowning at everything else, but there’s a draw, inexplicable and strong, resting behind lips that spout obscure facts on flowers, that curve and open in laughter, on eyes that narrow in anger and widen in awe, that a part of her wants to explore.

Raven’s tinkering around in the back and Clarke can hear her cursing at something - maybe Wick, who’s laugh is filtering into the front shop (that’s never a good sign).

“Hi.” Oh. _Oh_. The boy smiles like sunshine’s shooting out of his ass and Clarke is not immune whatsoever, smiling goofily back at the boy with the very nice hair who just walked into their parlour. “I’m Finn, um, friend of Raven’s.” She misses the way he glances at Raven, unsure and nervous, too busy looking at the way his thumbs creep out of his pocket, and his smile curls evenly.

“Hi. I’m Clarke. I’d shake your hand, but...” Clarke shrugs helplessly, the movement jostling the cat in her arms who meows pitifully and bats at her arm.

“Nice cat there, princess.” The nickname doesn’t sound half-bad coming out of Finn’s lips. Wait. No.

“You mean nice pussy, ayyyyy, Finn?” Jasper comes up next to Finn, elbowing him in the stomach with enthusiasm and Clarke has never missed Maya as much in this moment. Jasper is ten times as worse when she’s not around. Her face flushes hot and Finn is obviously a little embarrassed.

“No. I meant Garfield there.” He says, chuckling and giving a small half-smile before jerking a thumb towards the other boy “Jasper thinks he’s funny. He’s actually just an ass.”

Clarke tries to talk like Jasper hadn’t - it’s more difficult than most would think. “Yeah. I’m just going to go drop him off in front of his shop.” Finn walks closer and scratches the cat behind the ears.

“Next door, right? The flower shop.”

“Yep.” She purses her lips and hopes her face isn’t as red as it feels.

“Yeah, I always see the owner laying out food and water. She seems nice.” Clarke almost laughs at that. Nice would not be the first word anyone used to describe Lexa, but, she looks down at the fat cat rumbling content in her arms as Finn makes cooing noises at it, Lexa _is_ kind.

“I’m going to, um, go drop this thing off then.” She hefts the cat up a little bit and the thing meows in protest again.

“Yeah, of course. It was nice meeting you, Clarke.”

Finn moves away towards Raven, waving Clarke goodbye and she can’t help but hear Wick grumbling heavily from across the room. Clarke doesn’t think he needs to worry even as she watches Raven light up as Finn comes over to her. Finn is friendly and intelligent and funny - when he walks in the room seemed to brighten a little bit. He’s the guy, Clarke thinks, that was probably friends with everyone in high school, but she also thinks Finn might be less emotionally available then he seems, based on the way he fidgets, talking to Raven and glancing at her brace.

The cat bumps it’s head against her hand and Clarke is reminded of her task. She leaves DROPSHIP,  the bell announcing her exit, ringing lightly over head.

* * *

 

“Hey. Again.”  Lexa had only meant to step outside for a moment, not quite ready to face her unexpected visitor, but, like magic, Clarke Griffin is there waiting for her. She’d changed into an old cut-up t-shirt, paint splattered over it’s edges, stained and faded from wash but not quite gone. It clings to her around the hips and the arms are cut away, fabric ripped on the sides nearly half-way down, giving Lexa a very good view of the smooth skin that lies above Clarke’s ribs. Her mouth goes dry at the peeking of a bra, dark purple and flowery. Finally drawing her eyes up to Clarke’s face, Lexa notices the giant orange cat in her arms, head resting lazily in the crook of her shoulder. “Um, your cat wandered into our shop.”

"It's - they're not mine." She mumbles it into her shoulder, head ducked, and Clarke can almost imagine the tips of her ears turning pink. Clarke considers what that shade would look like permanently etched into Lexa’s skin, if Clarke could ever achieve that perfect shade, what it would be like to draw a needle across her ribs, or the top of her thighs and paint onto her, but the image leaves as soon as it comes, interrupted by Lexa bending down to scoop the cat into her own arms and out of Clarke’s.

“Oh. Okay then.” This is the worst. Clarke is the absolute worst at talking to anyone she finds moderately attractive and it’s truly an embarrassing quality.

She watches Lexa lick her lips, faced pinched in unease, and Clarke’s imagination takes off again, “Thank you, Clarke. I will see you in the morning.” It’s a quiet sentence and then Lexa’s gone, slipping back into the shop without another word, cat tucked heavily underneath her arm.

“Uh. You’re… welcome.”  She watches Lexa move around in the shop through the windows, cat still under arm, braids flying, and wishes she had a reason to go inside.

* * *

 

Anya waits for her in the back and raises an eyebrow when Lexa comes back with the cat.

“What the hell is that?”

“A cat.” Lexa frowns sourly at her, mumbling, before dumping the animal on the ground and shooeing it out the door.

“And _who_ was that?”

At that question, Lexa’s head raises sharply, chin high. “No one.” It’s soft, but Anya recognizes the tone of it, daring her to question Lexa’s answer.

“Fair enough.” Anya nods and returns to business. “You will be returning soon. The contract will be expiring and you need to prepare for when I’m forced to step down..”

“I am aware.” Their words are sharp and to the point. “Did you call upon me simply to remind me of things I already know?”

“No, you little brat. I came to warn you.” Lexa huffs  at Anya’s insult, secretly thrilled at the return to casualness. Anya is one of the few people in this world she trusts and a part of her had always feared that the way she had handled Costia’s death would drive a permanent rift in their relationship. “Troubles brewing Lexa and it’s waiting for you to return before it bubbles over.”

She hands Lexa a padded envelope and Lexa takes it, opening it without hesitation, war sparking in her eyes.

* * *

 

When Clarke gets back to the shop it’s filled with more people - Harper’s up front talking to Bellamy, no delivery, just visiting, giving Clarke a quick wave and then, there’s the hulking giant of a man peering over Octavia’s shoulder at her workstation, admiring what appears to be a photo of the finished calf piece from earlier.

"Hi."

"Hi.” Clarke waits and the guy scoots a little closer to Octavia before introducing himself. “I'm Lincoln."

"Lincoln's one of Lexa's friends." Octavia says with a bit of distaste in her mouth, like Lexa had done something to offend her and it's so out of place on the girl’s tongue that Clarke almost has to assume that she probably did.

“Well,” and Lincoln lifts his eyebrows, lips turned up slightly in amusement, “Friends would probably be stretching it - at least, in her eyes. I work for her - Thursday through Sunday.”

Now Clarke’s a little weirded out, she’s been around Lexa and while the girl had been pleasant, if not a little prickly at times - it’s still a little incongruous to imagine how someone who runs a flower shop and feeds stray cats builds such a cumbersome reputation. Clarke hadn’t exactly been expecting shining rainbows of friendships to burst between them after the unfortunate demise of Lexa’s inventory. There’d been moments though. And the cats were cute. “Is she… that bad?”

"No. I'm sorry. She's not mean, she’s always respectful - just a little - a little um - " Octavia struggles to find the word

"Ruthless? Intense?" Lincoln offers and then smiles wider like maybe they should be picturing Lexa petting puppies instead of cutting off the heads of her enemies, while Octavia nods enthusiastically next to him. Clarke thinks of the crumbling flower and the tips of Lexa’s ears, the curve of her lips as they frown and the pressed flower between the pages of her art, and knows that there are probably tens of thousands of words that could be used to illustrate Lexa. None of which quite compares to what Clarke would _like_ to do with paint and paper and Lexa standing bare in front of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my inbox is always open @ fuscience.tumblr.com


	4. were we not magnificent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke's mornings with Lexa come with a little string attached - that neither of them really want them to stop. And Lexa hurts her hand. On someone's face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a while... updates will probably still be very far apart, but i am on break for a bit from grad school so i'll see where it takes me!

Clarke begins to come in earlier because she discovers that one hour is not enough time with Lexa and some mornings she gets distracted by the way the light filters in through the window, hitting Lexa and the flowers just right so she is forced to start bringing her charcoal and a small pad of paper, slipping it out when Lexa’s distracted to quickly sketch. A part of her feels guilty, but she figures she’ll make up for the small breaks by coming in an extra day. Or two. Maybe more - she wants to make sure her and Lexa are good and square by the end of this.

By Monday, her fourth day of voluntary work in Lexa’s shop, Clarke’s getting a feel for how the shop runs, even interacting with a few customers herself, attempting to spew back the facts she’s absorbed from Lexa’s daily infomercials on her flowers. She can now tell the difference between violets and pansies, although don’t get her started on orchids because Clarke gave up on those after Lexa showed her the Monkey orchid (hint: it looks like a monkey face and that is not a flower Clarke is interested in touching). Not that Clarke’s complaining though because she specifically spurs Lexa on, asking about this flower or that one just to hear Lexa speak in run on sentences, jumping from one topic to another, going on about the optimal pH and shade conditions, to what countries it originated in and where it is still proliferant today. It’s the most animated and open Lexa ever gets and it’s lovely and Clarke is entranced by it. It’s those moments she truly wishes she could freeze and pull out her sketchbook, but that would be too obvious and she’s sure, Lexa would scoff at the idea so, Clarke settles for capturing the girl’s face when she’s not looking.

She’s added a pink rose, a Dame’s violet, and an American coral bell to the pages of her book - pressed evenly into it.

It does not go unnoticed by the others how often Clarke has been next-door and her attempts to brush it off as doing the neighborly thing and making up for the ruined product gets met with raised eyebrows and dubious stares because Lexa’s not friendly, not by a long shot, but Jasper swears he saw a smile one afternoon when Clarke happened to be leaving the store at the same time he arrived at the parlour.

Maya tips her head and waggles her eyebrows teasingly “I kind of have to agree.” and Clarke doesn’t even defend herself this time.

Clarke thinks of Lexa and leftover flowers that decorate her desk and lie between the pages of her notebook. She thinks of Lexa and shared glances and affection rises from somewhere within her.

* * *

 

Clarke’s been hard at work watering the buds in the back for about half an hour before she even sees Lexa this morning. The girl had been in the back turning the compost pile, a task Clarke was grateful she had never been asked to do. It was gross and it smelled, but when Lexa emerges she’s blinking brightly at Clarke with dirt on her.... well, on her  everywhere. It’s endearing to say the least. Everything hard about Lexa is softened when she’s elbow deep in dirt and compost and gazing  at Clarke.

“Clarke. Good morning.” She nods at Clarke in greeting, a small smile passing over her lips that stretches the curves of her face and

“Uh. You have something…” She points to her own cheek, indicating where Lexa had smeared a large patch of dirt on her skin. Lexa rubs on the wrong side. “No the other side.” She misses by several inches and leaves half of the line still muddying up her face. “Here. Let me.”

There’s so many better ways Clarke _could_ handle this, but the urge to touch her was overwhelming and welcome.

She takes a paper towel and wets it before gently cupping Lexa’s face and wiping. The girl, who stands over her by a few inches, bows her head and closes her eyes to make it easier.

Lexa wonders if Clarke can hear the beat of her heart, striking out against her rib cage in time with the even, gentle swipe of cloth against her skin. It’s almost embarrassing, being able to feel how her entire body leans in and curves towards Clarke and her hands and her warmth.

The towel makes it’s way along the curve of Lexa’s cheek several times, as Clarke delicately wipes her face, taking away dirt to reveal clean, pink skin underneath. When she pauses for a moment Lexa raises her head and stares straight at Clarke, eyes dark enough that Clarke has to take a moment and swallow whatever creeps up her throat. People don’t stare at each other for no reason and it almost scares Clarke how openly her and Lexa tend to admire each other now, not caring if the other notices how their eyes stray.

The bell over the door rings abruptly and they are both jerked from their revery, heads turning swiftly to who ever entered, but it’s only Lincoln, who’s eyeing them and the wet rag curiously.

“Hey, Lincoln.” Clarke throws over her shoulder, the tension leaving them as she returns to cleaning the dirt off Lexa’s face. Lexa, for her part, now looks uneasy, face pinched at the audience even though it is only Lincoln, even though it is simply Clarke wiping her face - a wholly innocent act.

“Hey.”

Clarke tips her chin up and swipes over the skin there one last time, scrubbing a bit before releasing.

“All done. Now at least your face doesn’t look like it’s been swimming in dirt.”

Lexa cups her own cheek and smiles at Clarke, but when she pulls her hand away Clarke starts laughing causing Lexa’s eyes to flick in confusion.

“What? Clarke - why - why are you laughing?” Clarke wets another paper towel and Lexa does not even flinch when she raises it to her cheek and wipes, pulling away to show Lexa the new dirt her hand had left there. “Oh. Maybe I should go wash my hands.”

Lexa looks down at the dirt crusted underneath her fingernails, rubbing the tips together and feeling the callouses and wonders if  all the mess bothers Clarke, but then Clarke’s hands reach for hers and Clarke’s thumbs press into the indent of her palm, against the grainy flecks of soil entombed there, and she says, “True gardener’s hands, disgustingly filthy and ready to help things grow.”

They ignore Lincoln who offers them the same courtesy and stand together for a bit, hands wrapped around each other, before Lexa reluctantly pulls away to actually go wash up.

* * *

 

One time Clarke does not have work at the DROPSHIP. One of two precious days off a week and her feet hit the pavement taking her past her favourite coffee shop where she picks up two to-go cups, past Miller who waves gently at her through the windows, past her tattoo parlour and in front of the doors of Lexa’s shop.

Lexa takes her coffee with three sugars and two cups of cream and the one time Clarke was offered a sip she swore it tasted like drinking a liquid pixie stix. It’s so at odds with her personality and Lexa acknowledges this with a shrug of the shoulders.

“It is something I picked up.” Costia. Costia loved coffee and could never understand Lexa’s distaste for it. There must have been a thousand cups of coffee sat on their table in the morning before she had found a combination of sweet and bitter Lexa would suffer through. She could easily remember the sun streaming in through the blinds, the warmth of it as Costia would lay a single cup next to her before shuffling off back to bed.

“How to make your coffee taste like cotton candy?”  

The edges of Lexa’s lips turn up, “How to make coffee palatable.”

Clarke takes a sip of her coffee with a single packet of sweet'n’ low and shakes her head in mock disappointment. She makes her way to the back of the shop, feeling more than seeing Lexa follow her - the familiar sound of boot on tile echoes through the room. Spring brings new flowers and Clarke sees the flash of yellow on Lexa’s desk, stopping in her tracks.

“Oh. Those are new.” Lexa sidles up beside her, taking a sip of her coffee so close that Clarke can smell it on Lexa’s breath.

“Yes.” The answer is short and terse, but before Lexa can move to close the door Clarke pushes in - like she seems to do so often. The air stills around Lexa and she shudders watching Clarke finger the delicate petals of the Merry Bells.

“I - Be careful with those.” Clarke looks up in surprise at the anger in her request.

“Okay.” Clarke’s hand withdraws from the flowers and Lexa’s face burns in shame at the wary way Clarke carries herself after Lexa’s outburst, as if she was waiting for more violent words to fall. “They’re very beautiful.”

Her heart clenches at Lexa’s words and instead of responding immediately Lexa moves to take a single one from the bundle and press it carefully into Clarke’s clenched fist.

“Someone I knew loved them very much. She said they looked like tiny rays of sunlight reaching towards the ground, reaching towards us.” She says softly.

“That’s poetic.”

“Yes. She thought so as well.” Costia loved coming up with ideas and then, stealing Lexa’s glasses and slipping them onto her own face, repeating them in a silly voice when she realized how pretentious they sounded. Lexa smiles at the memory and then, keeps smiling because Costia and Lexa’s smile have been separated for far too long. She likes beings able to think of her and happiness. She likes that Clarke can allow her to be happy.

* * *

 

Clarke has found that the herb section is her favorite. Most would  assume working as an artist meant visuals attracted her more than any other sensory exposure, but she finds the smell of wild ginger, basil, thyme intoxicating, calming even. It’s very nice to sit among them, and watch Lexa move around the shop, and she smiles when Lexa always turns and catches her looking

“You are avoiding your tasks Clarke.” She chastises and Clarke just looks up at her mildly from her position on the floor, unbothered by Lexa’s irritation. “These plants will not water themselves.”

“I like the smell.” Clarke responds, like that is reason enough to not complete the jobs Lexa has set out for her.

“They are pleasant.” Lexa smiles, tucking a small peppermint leaf plant onto a shelf. She avoids Clarke’s gaze and admits, “I make teas out of them.”

The tips of Lexa’s ears turn red, like Clarke has seen multiple times - always the only indication that Lexa is bothered, and she swallows, mouth dry at the sight of it.

“I’ll have to try it, sometime. Your tea.”

“I’d like that.”  Lexa dips her head, hoping Clarke can’t see the  anticipation on her face.

* * *

 

The cat wraps itself around Lexa’s hand and Clarke watches her ignore the creature, even though it follows behind her, obediently leaving out through the propped open back door when Lexa shoos it away.

“It’s a little surprising.” Clarke’s got her head resting on her elbows leaning on the counter, “They really like you.”

Lexa frowns at that, the little wrinkles between her eye intensifying and her head tilts a little to the side, the barest hint of confusion and the extent of her emotional response. “Why does that surprise you?”

“Well, you like to frown a lot at people, but animals must sense something else.” Clarke jokes

“I am not wholly unlikeable Clarke.” The rising tide of anger is as shocking to Lexa as it is to Clarke. She has never felt such a need to defend herself or her attitude and she doesn’t understand why the need for Clarke to think differently of her is so overwhelming.

“Lexa - “ Clarke reaches for her and she flinches, withdrawing into herself.

“I think you should leave.”

“No.” Clarke stares defiantly back. “I didn’t mean it that way. Lexa, I’m sorry.” she reaches up and rubs at the crinkles between Lexa’s eyes smoothing them down. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t enjoy your company.” Lexa still looks upset, but the lines of her face soften with Clarke’s touch. “All I meant was that you tend to not allow people to see your kindness. Not that it’s nonexistent. Animals know what people are really like. The cats know you’re an amazing person. ”

She removes her thumb, pulling her hand back from Lexa’s face. There's a story there probably, explaining Lexa's defensiveness, but it's not any of Clarke's business - the only thing for her to do is to talk Lexa down.

“Oh.” Lexa sighs under her breath, the movement tinged with sadness.

“Now, can I stay?”

“Yes. Of course. I apologize.” She hadn’t realized how prepared she’d been for Clarke to leave, for her to find something wrong with Lexa, something unlikeable, and walk out of her store, never to return. Lexa feels very unsure right now, but her muscles unclench as Clarke soothes her uncertainty away.

“You have nothing to apologize for.” Clarke tries to catch her eye, but Lexa won’t look at her and is already backing away again. _Trying to escape_ , Clarke thinks.

“Clarke - “

“Lexa - “ They interrupt each other and Clarke makes a vaguely encouraging gesture for her to go first.

“I’m sorry.” She clears her throat. “I jumped to conclusions and lashed out. It is important to me, that you know my anger was not directed at you. There are… events occurring in my life at the moment that have left me less hospitable than is appropriate.” Lexa folds her hands diplomatically behind her back and straightens her spine, unable to move as Clarke comes forward and reaches for her hand, the tips of their fingers brushing.

“I love your shop, Lexa. Thank you for letting me in it.” Is all she says before stepping past Lexa, heart threatening to beat out of her chest.

Lexa turns her eyes to the ceilings, tears sparking at the corners, and her tongue darts out to wet her lips, trying to regain the composure that Clarke rarely allows her to have.

* * *

 

This morning, Clarke has chosen to abandon her art for a broom, feeling the need to work off excess energy that has bubbled up inside her over the past eight days. Her mother was coming into town soon and Clarke was absolutely dreading it.

“I’m 25, nearly 26 and have no idea what I’m doing.” She complains to Lexa who stands over the counter, reading (Always reading. Lexa reads so much Clarke wonders if the world will run out of documents and books for her someday).

“You might as well be a spinster with your old age and lack of decent connections.” Lexa replies dryly, flipping back and forth between some pages in the packet. Anya was correct in her assessment. The board was preparing for some very hostile, very _stupid_ moves that would be imbecilic of Lexa  to allow to pass.

Clarke laughs, “Whatever. You’re the same age as me.”

Lexa looks up, confused for a moment. “No, I am not.” She is very pleased with herself when Clarke raises an eyebrow, eyes shifting over to her to pay Lexa more attention.

“Wait. What? How old are you?”

“I am 24.”

“No fucking way.” Clarke looks scandalized at the revelation and Lexa is bewildered, wondering what about her age drew such a reaction.

“What?”

“You’re younger than me?” Lexa shrugs. “How did I not know this?”

At this, she can’t help but smile superiorly, teasing “I do give off a certain air that you… well, lack.”

“Are you calling me immature?” Clarke pauses her sweeping, leaning on the broom.

“Maybe.” Lexa’s smiling. Lexa is smiling and Clarke shouldn’t find it as attractive as she does because the girl is normally a hundred degrees south of friendly  and probably not a good choice to have a crush on and Clarke is not the most emotionally stable either, but… she’s smiling and Clarke’s stomach tightens involuntarily.

Her face flushes and, “Shut up.” she ducks her head, not missing how Lexa’s smile stays etched on her face for minutes after even as she goes back to her papers.

* * *

 

It’s delivery day. When, Clarke walks in Lexa looks at her and it’s so silent a pin drop could be heard. Clarke isn’t so sure the sound of her heart dropping wasn’t. She knows the original deal was that Clarke only had to stay to help out with a delivery, coming into the shop intermittently until then, but… she would miss the shop (miss Lexa) and would lose her reason to come so often.

After the last crate is loaded off, the delivery man, not Indra, (Lexa explains again about the multiple suppliers, going off on a tangent about the various flowers being delivered this week coming from humid and swampy climates, not unlike Florida. Clarke laughs, calls Florida the armpit of the south, and take a special joy in Lexa’s annoyed face when Clarke doesn’t seem to absorb any of the information she considers to be important.) waves a polite goodbye and they head back inside.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Clarke says, hoping that she can escape before Lexa rejects her.

“Clarke, wait.” Too late. Lexa shifts on her feet, looking a little sad and a little small as Clarke turns to look back at her. “You do not have to come anymore. You have been a great help.”

“Oh.” Clarke stares at her dumbly, unprepared for the dismissal. Her face falls and Lexa’s eyes widen in panic. She had only sought to relieve Clarke of any obligation she felt in showing up, not to upset her, and she hates that she can’t ever seem to speak or move correctly around Clarke.

“Unless you would like to, of course.” She clears her throat, nervously backtracking, before softly saying.“You are always welcome here, Clarke.”

She doesn’t miss the noticeable relief on Clarke’s face and it makes her very, very happy to know that Clarke likes to come here.. “Oh, good. Maybe I can bring my art supplies around?”

Lexa looks at her bewildered, “Have you not already been doing that?” and Clarke’s face turns red as she realizes she was not as sneaky as she thought and desperately hopes Lexa has no inkling of who her subject was during those times.

* * *

 

Clarke sometimes watches Lexa care for her plants and wishes she could be half that in love with something. Her hair is in a fishtail plait today and to Clarke’s utter delight there are daisies braided into the twisted strands. She looks bored, nails and body clean of dirt for once, glasses on and reading a book behind the counter. The morning must have been wont for customers. She doesn’t look up when Clarke enters and it isn’t until Clarke is standing right in front of her, only the soft marble separating them, that Lexa lets a soft greeting escape.

“Hello, Clarke.”

“Hey.” Her voices is  a little breathy because this is her first morning just showing up, no work, no excuse, just here and Clarke is unable to adopt the effortlessly uninvested tone Lexa is a master of. “Nice hair.”

“Thank you.” Lexa looks up then, eyes flicking toward Clarke momentarily as  a small smile playing across her lips and she turns a page. Her braid falls over her shoulder as she bends forward and returns to her book, probably expecting Clarke to set up in a quiet corner and draw. Instead Clarke finds herself reaching out and playing with the end of Lexa’s braid that hangs over her right shoulder, climbing it slowly with her fingers to trace one of the small white flowers resting there.

Lexa tenses at the touch, taking a moment to acclimate before relaxing into it as Clarke continues to gently touch her. She concentrates on her measured breaths, trying to breathe both deeply and quietly. The change in demeanor does not go unnoticed by Clarke, but she chooses to keep her hands where they are, moving slowly so as to not startle Lexa.

“Is there something you need, Clarke?” Lexa’s eyes flutter and her throat bobs nervously as she brings a hand up to capture Clarke’s, wrapping her fingers around the strong bones of Clarke’s wrist. Clarke shakes her head no and finally lets her hand fall.

“Just stopping over on my break.” At the loss of contact Lexa’s stomach coils and she glances down at her book, thinking maybe she can distract herself from the push and pull of her body towards Clarke, but her concentration is shot and Lexa has about as much faith that she can find her stopping point in the book, that she could survive a fall from space.  

She reaches up to fiddle with the end of her hair, where Clarke had just been touching, before quietly questioning, “Would you like me to braid your hair?”

Lexa asks so unsurely that Clarke aches because Lexa is standoffish and polite to the point of demeaning but when she tries, she tries so _hard_  sometimes that it’s endearing and Clarke knows Lexa makes an effort with her. So, her face brightens and she nods enthusiastically.

“Can you?” Lexa’s chin lifts in pride, the movement familiar to Clarke.

“I am very proficient at hair braiding, Clarke. Come here.”

Clarke hurries over, hip bumping into the corner of the counter as she takes the turn a little too fast. Lexa hops off her stool and gestures for Clarke to take a seat. Lexa begins to run her fingers through Clarke’s light hair, untangling any knots she encounters. Clarke’s hair is not as long as hers, but is is long enough and soft. Very, very soft. Her nails scrape the top of Clarke’s scalp and she feels the other girl shudder  in response. Lexa smiles and begins.

It’s quiet for a while as she works, pulling lines of hair and layering them over one another as she works her way down from the top of Clarke’s head in a french braid, idly reaching under the counter for some discarded flowers she keeps there.

“You wear braids a lot.” Clarke states, breaking the silence.

“They are convenient.” Lexa hesitates before adding. “My mother taught me.”

“Oh.” Clarke hums and Lexa knows from previous conversations that Clarke and her mother are on loving if not precariously speaking to each other terms. “My mom taught me the chambers of the heart. When I was four.”

Lexa doesn’t need to see Clarke’s face twist in bitterness. It is laced all throughout her tone. She also knows the Clarke’s mother is a doctor and Clarke is a tattoo artist. It does not take a genius to imagine how that might cause conflict between the two women. There is nothing Lexa understands better than the burden of expectations and the disappointment when one does not meet them.

She reaches for a spare hair tie and begins to twist it around the end of Clarke’s hair, finishing the braid in minutes.

“Sometime the people closest to us do not understand the difference between good and good for us.” Lexa pats Clarke lightly on the back of her head. “All done.”

There is not a mirror nearby but judging by the look on Lexa’s face when Clarke spins around her hair is beautiful. In fact, judging by Lexa’s face Clarke would think she was seeing the sun or moon or stars for the first time. Clarke takes a deep breath and revels in the feeling of Lexa’s stare, bright and admiring and soft all at once.

“Thanks.”

She makes her way to the door, impromptu stopover meaning her break is nearly over and she hadn’t done anything but see Lexa (Clarke doesn’t regret it, has yet to regret a single moment spent with her no matter how precarious their introduction was). “I’ll see you later. “

“Clarke.” Lexa stops Clarke with the sound of her voice and quickly plucks a daisy out of her own hair, tucking it behind Clarke’s ear and  letting her fingers linger on the curve of Clarke’s cheek and the tip of her chin. Clarke watches her passive face, trying to understand what the movement means and decides to make one of her own. She leans up quickly and presses a soft kiss that is intended for Lexa’s cheek, but in the rush to bravery ends up somewhere between her jaw and chin. Without looking, Clarke turns on her heel and walks away - not seeing Lexa’s wide eyes or her cheeks redden or the way she stands and rubs her fingers over and over on the spot where Clarke’s lips touched her skin.

When she returns to the shop, Clarke makes plans to press both the daisy and one of the posey’s into her book.

Speaking of returning, Clarke walks through the door of DROPSHIP and is immediately met with Bellamy’s raised eyebrow.

“What is on your head?’ He asks, staring. He’s not the only one as Octavia looks up as well, the siblings both giving her analytical looks.

“Flowers.” She mutters in a daze..

Octavia stands up, black, sleeveless tank showing the clear, dark lines of her abstract collarbone tattoo - the one that swirls, black and deep around the top of her chest, before fanning out and disappearing near her shoulder.

“Did Lexa do that?”

“Yeah.” Octavia and Bellamy exchange a look that Clarke certainly does not miss before Octavia speaks up.

“Cool. It looks really pretty.”

“Thanks.” Clarke ducks her head and turns on her heel, walking away from the siblings towards her desk. A safe space.

Not safe enough though, as Monty sidles up behind her only minutes later, tapping one of the flowers in her hair.

“Yo, Clarke. What’s up?” Clarke likes Monty. He’s probably one of her favorite people, honest and calm, so she doesn’t mind him even though judging by the look he’s giving her, there will soon be some probing questions.

“Nothing. When’d you get here?”

“Just now.” There’s a beat of silence. “Saw Lexa on my way in.”

A nipple piercing is waiting in the private room and Clarke considers standing and telling Bellamy she’ll do it, if only to escape the topic of this conversation.

“Oh, yeah?” Clarke’s attempt to sound uninterested is a failure even to her own ears and Monty grins.

“Yeah. She was smiling. Not sure I’ve ever seen that before.”

“She smiles!” Clarke defends. Monty raises an eyebrow at her indignation and Clarke doesn’t blame him, pursing her lips in embarrassment as she turns back to her desk to fiddle with a drawer.

“Hey, Clarke.” Monty begins gently. “I’m a smart guy, right?” Clarke nods. She’s certainly not the one getting a PhD. “But you know, as smart as I am, I always learn new things and one thing I’ve learned in the past couple months is that if someone makes you happy, then just go for it. Forget what people might say or what might happen in the future. Just give yourself a chance to be happy and maybe things will fall into place.” He shrugs. “Maybe they won’t, but I’m a deep believer in failed experimentation as part of any process to discovery.”

Clarke looks at Monty and his eyes and his face full of empathy and wishes she could give herself over to happiness in the same way he has - Clarke has always been the biggest obstacle for herself. More than that though, Clarke wishes she had the courage to be with Lexa, instead of simply recreating her on paper.

* * *

 

The next day, Clarke walks quietly into the shop, creeping into the back near the seedlings towards the sound of Lexa’s voice.

She finds Lexa rapping out the words, _‘i’ll take you to the flower shop, i’ll let you see the treetop’_ to the tune of ‘Candy Shop’, soft smile on, voice ringing out low in the shop, tapping her fingers slightly to the sound of her own voice. Clarke is worried because her heart leaps into her throat and she’s met with the overwhelming urge to smile too.

* * *

 

Lexa takes a deep breath and faces the door. This will be the first time she’s willingly crossed into the DROPSHIP and, _god_ , Clarke is a very troublesome person and Lexa wishes she could ignore her, but at the same time can’t help but take every opportunity, make every excuse that allows her to spend a minute more with the other girl.

The bell overhead tinkles, higher and thinner than the one that sits above her own door, and Lexa is almost surprised she could hear it at all over the cacophony that greets her inside the DROPSHIP parlour. A wiry slip of a man, tall, and thinly muscled, stands up front towering over the girl she came to find. His hair flops from side to side as he gestures furiously at Clarke and she finds his clothes, khaki shorts and a polo, and the way he suddenly sticks a finger in Clarke’s face to be utterly distasteful. A white, hot flash of anger strikes it’s way down Lexa’s spine and her lip curls in barely concealed disgust at the scene.

“Look I want what I want and you’re cute.” He latches on to Clarke’s wrist with Lexa standing in the doorway and she’s a little ashamed it takes her longer than a second to react. “You do the tattoo, sweetheart. I’m sure you’re fine.”

“I said I don’t do tattoos yet. I’m in training you cromagnum cocksuc-”

Lexa takes a few long strides forward from her place near the door and sees red, a flash of blinding white hot rage. Without really thinking, she barrels into the back of him and punches the larger man, knuckles scraping hard against his jaw, sending  him stumbling backwards and falling to the ground. Clarke scrambles away, surprised, but quickly recovers enough of her good senses to  grab Lexa’s hand, the one that did not just beat hard against a thick skull, and pull her back.

“Lexa!” It’s been a while, but Lexa will never forget the sound of terror, the rush of blood to her head that comes with her anger. Her muscles clench tighter and tighter, trying to hold herself together and she has to focus because last time she got this angry - _last time_ \- . Lexa’s heart drops and she relaxes, focusing in on blonde hair. “You good?”

She’s not, not really.

There’s a groan from the floor and Clarke takes one look over her shoulder before making the decision to pull Lexa out of the shop at full speed. In the corner of her eye, Lexa sees the Blake’s on the belligerent customer, Bellamy holding his arms and Octavia sitting on his head, while Monty lifts a phone to his ear, but then they are swinging them into the flower store and everything is out of sight.

Inside the store, Clarke immediately pins Lexa against the door with a scathing glare, hand still intertwined with hers. Lexa’s chin rises and she nearly backs up a step at the look Clarke is currently sending her.

“I could have handled that.” Clarke says, thinly veiled frustration lining her words as she looks angrily at the bloodied remains of Lexa’s hand, cradling it to her chest.

“Yes.” Lexa tries to pull her hand away, tugging it towards herself, but only succeeds in moving Clarke with her hand, dragging the blonde further within her space so that mere inches separated them.

“You didn’t need to step in.”

“I know.” Clarke tries to get her to stop resisting her grip and Lexa finally relents a little, allowing Clarke to inspect the damage. “I shouldn’t have.”

“Shit.” She sees some blood running down between Lexa’s knuckles, “Let me see your hand.”

Lexa acquiesces easier than she should, letting Clarke’s fingers gently dance over her own. “I am fine.”

“Why don’t we let a doctor decide that?”

The air in the room freezes as Lexa’s spine stiffens, “No. No hospitals.” She’s almost embarrassed at the cold, desperate plea in her voice.

“Hey.” A boy walks into the store, hair long and soft, and his greeting is directed at Clarke and Lexa must assume they are acquaintances, maybe friends (but nothing more, nothing more she hopes). Lexa has never met him before - he must be an infrequent visitor (she hopes, she hopes he is a stranger to Clarke. No one of any importance.) “Are you two okay?”

“Yeah, but her hand’s fucked. Could you give us a ride to the hospital?”

“ _Clarke._ ” Lexa hisses out between clenched teeth. She's torn because _Clarke_ , but _hospitals_ and the two pull her in different directions because half of her is willing to walk on hot coals for the girl currently holding her bloodied hand and the other would not step foot within the doors of Mercy West even at gunpoint. Clarke ignores her and Finn follows her lead.

“Sure, I’m parked out back.”

Lexa feels the tug on her hand, but steadfastly ignores it until she can’t any longer. “Lexa.” Her teeth are clenched together so tight that her jaw is beginning to hurt and she watches Clarke pause, searching for the right words, “I’ll be right here.”

It shouldn’t be enough. Only one person has ever been enough for Lexa and she - . It shouldn’t be enough, but, like most things Clarke, Lexa has very little control. The words wash over he, like balm to stinging sores and Lexa relaxes, reluctantly shuffling her feet towards the door. She tries to ignore the nervous tick in her jaw or the slight tremble of her hand as it holds so tightly to Clarke’s.

* * *

 

Lexa aggressively ignores and glares at Finn the entire ride to the hospital and the entire time they sit in the waiting room. Whenever he speaks to Clarke, looks at Clarke, is near Clarke or her, Lexa finds her eyes narrowing, eyebrows creasing without conscious control. Her stomach twists every time the boy leans in close to talk to Clarke as they sit in the E.R. waiting room and Lexa thinks he should get a haircut, not because she doesn’t like the way his hair brushes against Clarke’s shoulder, but simply because the look is not becoming to him. He looks like he time-traveled from the flower power era. Lexa is allowed to judge - she owns a flower shop.

“Finn’s going to head on back now - he’s got a class at two.” Lexa nods as Clarke returns and sits down next to her, ignoring the way their elbows brush as she holds her wrist to her chest.

“I don't like hospitals." Lexa says and Clarke understands.

“Yeah. Neither do I.”

Clarke doesn't hold anything against doctors, there's resentment for her mother and the hours she keeps, anger at the bureaucracy that allowed her father to die, but she's seen families cry with relief when their loved one is released from surgery, when the news was good and the life was saved and she can no more begrudge the institution it's victories than she can acknowledge its failings.

"My dad died in a hospital." Lexa looks stoically ahead, only catching how Clarke's face crumples out of the corner of her eye. It's barely noticeable, how her eyes shine a little too brightly and her lips thin out, but Lexa recognizes it, the anger, the sadness - it's like looking in a mirror. "He got hurt, really bad. They put him in a medically induced coma and he never woke up. I didn't get to visit him before my mom um, shut off the machines."

Clarke can still remember how little she noticed when the hospital calls started dropping off and then the phone call, god, how _stupid_ and _self-absorbed_ had she been? All those days after the accident, wrapped up in her own recovery, catching up on schoolwork and friends, and she never noticed.

"I lost someone too, once." Clarke's eyes flick over, taking in Lexa's pinched face and bowed head and her heart skips a beat. "She was hurt and she died. Here. Room 607.” Lexa still doesn't look over and neither does Clarke, but her throat bobs nervously at releasing this part of herself to Clarke. She doesn’t like this feeling that Clarke draws out of her, and she doesn’t like speaking of her past and yet, she continues on because… because it will make Clarke feel better and that’s all she needs to know. "Her name was Costia and she was mine." She shudders a little at the memory of Costia's last moments, physically weak, but eyes still shadowed with defiance until there was no light left at all, and bows her head. Parts of her consider explaining how her rashness led to Costia’s death, how the loss of her left parts of Lexa dead inside, and how everyday she tries to pay penance, but it’s too much right now.

Clarke bends and lays her head against Lexa’s shoulder.

There's silence and then, "Hospital's really, _really_ suck."

"Yes." Lexa huffs out, not quite able to smile, but still glad Clarke’s here. "They do."

**  
Their fingers tangle together in Lexa’s one good hand and it anchors them.**

**Author's Note:**

> on tumblr at fuscience.tumblr.com


End file.
